Angel of Something Else Entirely
by Ace of Gallifrey
Summary: Ten yards can change everything. One person is standing in a different place during the masquerade and things change drastically. Erik does not react well to an angel falling into the trap he laid for Raoul, with some very unexpected results.
1. In Which Meg Acts Rashly

**Title-** Angel of Something Else Entirely  
**Characters/Pairings-** Onesided E/C, E/M, the whole gang's putting in an appearance, even Carlotta!  
**Rating-** K+  
**Summary-** Ten yards can change everything. Just one person is standing in a different place during the masquerade and in a split second, she takes action. How will Erik react to an angel falling into the trap meant for his rival? Can his tragic fate be altered?  
**Disclaimer-** I don't own POTO, and I DEFINITELY don't own anything you recognize belonging to the dear Edgar Allan Poe.

**A/N-** Two points. One, to those of you following my fic Danse Macabre, never fear, there is more to come on that end. I'm just a bit stuck ATM and I just couldn't ignore this plot bunny nipping at my ankles. Two, I often refer to Meg in my head as the Angel of Something Else Entirely. After all, she's not a musician, so no Angel of Music here (though you will notice that someone thought her good enough to give her a singing role in a small ensemble in_ il Muto_, so she's obviously got pipes), but of all the people referred to as an angel, she's the only one who actually seems to deserve the name, so... yeah, that's how the title of this fic came about. Enjoy my rambling? Good, now go read more of it...

* * *

The masquerade was supposed to be wonderful, Meg thought a little bitterly. For almost a month now, the gossip in the ballet dormitories had centered on virtually nothing else. She herself had spent hours working out a costume, the _perfect _costume. She supposed it had been Christine who originally planted the idea in her mind; all the talk about the Angel of Music, despite the darker concerns clouding the idea, had somehow stuck with her, so an angel she was. Her dress was simply perfect, stunning white silk set about with silver trimmings and little white jewels. She had spent a month's wages on it. The wings she had made herself, after begging Madame Devereaux, the costume mistress, to give her the feathers she needed. She looked, in her opinion, better than she ever had before in her life and she was... a wallflower. Again.

Meg would have been lying if she'd said she hadn't cherished thoughts of some handsome stranger sweeping her off her feet tonight. All her friends, Christine most notably, seemed to be finding men left and right. Didn't that make it her turn? Not so. As usual, her girlish daydreams far outstripped reality, and she was left standing on the stairs next to Carlotta, listening to the Italian diva natter away about god knows what at Piangi.

It would have been easy, she supposed, to blame it on her mother. No decent young man would want to risk the protective wrath of the severe ballet mistress when there were dozens of unattached ladies in the room, right? But that wasn't fair, and Meg knew it. She was just, as usual, invisible.

She glanced down at the couples engaged in a lively waltz on the floor below, spotting Christine whirling in the arms of her sweetheart. Her friend had confided in her just that morning that the two were engaged- in secret, she stressed. It _had_ to be secret. Meg suspected that _that_ had everything to do with the Phantom, who seemed to have vanished since that deadly production of _il Muto. _(Frankly, Meg was a little unnerved by the lack of threatening letters and amusing pranks- for much of her life, the Opera Ghost had been just another part of the opera, and life didn't seem right without his occasional presence.) Despite the odd circumstances and secrecy, though, Meg was happy for her friend. Now, if only some charming gentleman would take even a passing interest in _her_...

Meg did not have the opportunity, however, to discover if her solitude was permanent that night. At that exact moment, an eerie hush fell across the previously jubilant crowd. The orchestra ground to an unceremonious halt, and Monsieur Reyer dropped his baton. Meg turned to look where everyone else was staring and suddenly found it impossible to breathe. There, at the top of the stairs, stood a new figure: an immensely tall, slim man with broad shoulders who carried himself like a king and caused even the room itself to seem fixated on the spot where he stood. His costume was well-chosen to cause a stir, the scarlet cape and the mask like a skull, the American Poe's horror story coming to life before their eyes.

"_His vesture was dabbled in blood - and his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror_," Meg whispered to herself, recalling the tale that she had memorized once upon a time to try and impress the other girls. The Red Death... it was a shocking costume, to be sure, and she knew there was only one who would dare. The Phantom was come among them again.

He descended the stairs with measured steps that still managed to be confident and easy. "Why so silent, good Messieurs?" he asked. "Did you think that I had left you for good?"

"No," she whispered.

"Have you missed me, good Messieurs? I have written you an opera." His voice was pitched to echo perfectly against the polished marble, and though he did not speak loudly, he could be clearly heard in every corner of the great room. Now he had nearly reached the bottom of the first flight of stairs, not even fifteen feet away from her, and Meg had chills.

"Here I bring the finished score: Don Juan Triumphant!" He drew his rapier with a flourish. "Fondest greetings to you all. I've a few instructions just before rehearsal starts." He whirled, abruptly changing the course of his hitherto steady advance, and suddenly he was standing _right... in front... of her...!_

"Carlotta must be taught to act, not her normal trick of strutting 'round the stage," the Phantom who was no such thing said snidely, twiddling his sword in her elaborate hairpiece, and Meg wasn't sure whether the action or the words outraged the diva more. Had she not been as deep under his spell as everyone else, she might have laughed at the look on Carlotta's face. Her lover stepped forward, presumably to defend her, but the point of the Phantom's sword poking his broad belly brought any pitiful attempt at chivalry to a screeching halt. "Our Don Juan must lose some weight," he taunted. "It's not healthy in a man of Piangi's age." He gave the shorter man an unreadable stare, then turned away once more.

Meg might as well not have existed. For all that she was standing inches from Carlotta's bony elbow, his gaze didn't even touch her. The frustrations of the night were compounded, and she flushed with anger at once again being utterly ignored by _everyone_.

But the Phantom was speaking again, and his silky voice drove every thought out of her head as much as it did everyone else's. There was no room for any thought but those he planted as long as he was in the room, mesmerizing them all, and Meg was no exception to his spell. "My managers must learn that their place is in an office, not the arts. And as for our star, Miss Christine Daae..."

He sheathed his sword and turned to look down at the blushing rose at the base of the stairs, apparently abandoned by her lover, and Meg could see his face clearly. That was not the same taunting look he had given the rest of the crowd. There was anger there, and bitterness, but there was something else, too. It was a look of... adoration?

"No doubt she'll do her best, it's true her voice is good. She knows, though, should she wish to excel she has much still to learn, if pride will let her return to me, her teacher. Her teacher..." His voice was soft.

Oh. _Oh_. So that was it, then. _Oh Christine, whatever have you gotten yourself into?_ Meg thought despairingly.

Silently the pair approached each other, Christine ever so slowly ascending the steps as he walked down to meet her. Her lovely friend's face looked entranced, like she was hardly even in control of her own feet as she stared, open-mouthed, at the Phantom in scarlet. He, too, looked as though he might be under a spell, and _that_ was a look Meg was familiar with. She had seen it on the faces of many men who gazed longingly at Christine. It was a look that had never been directed at her.

All too suddenly, though, his awestruck gaze dropped downward to settle on the huge diamond ring symbolizing Christine's engagement which she wore around her neck, and the devoted look morphed immediately into a twisted snarl of rage. "Your chains are still mine!" he shouted, ripping the ring from her throat. "You belong to me!"

He whirled, swirling that impressive cape behind him, and came back up to stand within feet of Meg again. The great seal on the floor opened as if by magic, and a puff of fire obscured the Phantom momentarily as he dropped out of sight.

Meg wasn't aware of her actions until after the fact. All she would recall later was a voice in her head hissing determinedly, _oh no you don't!_ and spotting a flash of the Vicomte hurtling down the stairs out of the corner of her eye. The next thing she knew, she had picked up her skirts and taken those few steps and then _she_ was the one dropping out of sight beneath the floor, which slammed closed above her.

Immediately she regretted it. Like an idiot, like _Christine_, she had gone and dived in without looking first! She landed awkwardly, tumbling to her knees on the stone floor. When she picked herself up, she found herself stuck in a world of mirrors, seeing her own features reflected back at her a thousand times, and then the mirrors _shifted_, turning reality into a confusing dance of colors and distorted shapes that made her feel positively ill. But there- a flash of red! She lunged for it, and found herself face-to-face with her own reflection. Just a mirror. She whirled, trying to find an escape, but suddenly a gloved hand caught at hers and she let out a little shriek of surprise. She was dragged forcibly out of the mirror-room and into dank, cobweb-filled darkness.

"You should not have come down here, Little Giry," the voice belonging to the hand said, sounding none too pleased.

"_You_ should not have come to the masquerade, Monsieur le Fantôme," she said, attempting to wrench her hand back with no success. She _would_ maintain her composure! She was not a child, to fall apart when she found herself in a mess she wasn't entirely sure how to get back out of. Well, maybe falling apart a _little_ was okay... No! She wouldn't let the fear own her. If she could have the courage to do something incredibly foolish, she could find the courage to fix the problem she'd created.

He turned to face her, and she could almost make out the skull mask in the faintest imaginable light that filled the tunnel where they stood. "Oh?" he said, sounding amused. "And why not?"

She struggled for a reason that wouldn't sound silly. "Well... well... Because you weren't invited!" she pointed out.

At that, he let out an utterly humorless bark that might have passed for laughter. "I am rarely invited, Little Giry, but it has never stopped me before." His fingers closed even more tightly around her tiny hand, and she found herself being dragged deeper into the darkness. She tried to struggle against him, but he was every bit as strong as his powerful build suggested and it was a hopeless cause. After a minute of futile tugging, she gave up the endeavor, finding it in her best interests, and those of her slim ballerina's ankles, to follow him. He obviously knew where he was going, where she did not, and the floor was rough. It seemed, she thought ironically, that she _had_ ended up being swept off her feet at the ball after all, but certainly not in the manner she had intended!

After a time, Meg decided she had had _quite_ enough of being towed along in the dark with no idea of where she was going. "Where, if I may ask, are you taking me?" she asked icily.

"I cannot very well let you go, can I?" he said. "You will come with me."

"That does not answer my question, Monsieur," she said, tone even frostier than before.

He let out a soft noise of exasperation. "Very well," he said, sounding annoyed in the extreme, which Meg took to be a _very_ bad sign for her continued safety, tenuous as that already was. "I'm taking you down to the lake."

Meg decided she did not like the sound of _that_ at all.

* * *

**A/N-** I don't anticipate this being a particularly long fic. Eight chapters at the absolute most, unless I have wildly underestimated the amount of story I have to tell here (which is possible; I do that sometimes, but I wouldn't call it _probable_). Reviews are appreciated, encouraged, and responded to!


	2. In Which Erik Is Unreasonable

**A/N-** No reviews? Awww, I'm sad! Well, when my usual star reviewer gets back from holiday she'll more than make up for it so I'm appeased, I guess. In the meantime... you 53 people who have read this could leave a few comments. *hint hint nudge nudge* Okay, I'm done pathetically begging. On with the chapter!

* * *

As the little blonde all in white vanished beneath the floor, the paralysis that seemed to have overcome everyone in the room save for she and the Vicomte de Chagny lifted, and panic reigned. Carlotta and Piangi were shouting questions to anyone who would listen, courtly ladies were in tears, Messieurs Andre and Firmin were attempting to restore order with no apparent success, and in the middle of it all stood Christine Daae, looking pale and frightened. No one noticed the woman in black who slipped gracefully out the door.

Raoul rushed to his fiancée's side, clasping her hand in his own and putting his other arm around her shoulder protectively. "Christine, are you alright?" he asked. "He didn't hurt you?"

"He took Meg," she said, sounding breathless. "He took Meg, he took the ring... he'll take everything, Raoul! He'll take _everything_ from us!"

"No, he won't. We won't let him," he tried to reassure her.

Meanwhile, the managers seemed to have accomplished some quiet. "Does anybody know the young lady who followed the... uh... red gentleman below?" Firmin asked, in an awkward attempt at diplomacy.

Christine did not speak, apparently incapable of saying more than she already had, so Raoul spoke up in her place. "It was Madame Giry's daughter," he called out. "It was Meg Giry."

Andre made a little whimper of either panic or resignation- it was hard to tell which. "M-madame?" he called out. "Madame Giry?"

"I think she's gone," Raoul said. He didn't spy the widow among the assembled crowds, and he was sure that she would be on the hunt for her daughter already. He had begun to suspect already that the older woman knew more than she was saying, and this only confirmed that. Anyone else would have stayed here, where events had taken place, but Madame Giry... she had vanished, and Raoul wondered if she perhaps knew a way down below to wherever her daughter had gone.

"Oh, fantastic!" Firmin cried.

Raoul looked at Christine. "I must go and find Madame Giry. Will you be alright here?" he asked his future bride.

"I..." Christine was still white as a ghost, but she managed a little nod. "Yes. He won't come back yet..."

He squeezed her hand gently, then drew away from her. "Look after her, Messieurs. I will see if I can locate Madame Giry."

It took him some time, but eventually he located the woman in her quarters behind the ballet dormitories, pacing the narrow room wildly with red-rimmed eyes. Raoul did not knock, simply entering through the wide-open door. "Pardon me for intruding, Madame," he said. "Are you... are you quite alright?"

She turned to face him. "My daughter has been taken!" she exclaimed. "My daughter, my little Marguerite... I went down to the place beneath the stairs. There's a room full of mirrors; he built it. He has built many such traps over the years in all the secret places of this opera house, and only he knows how to escape most of them, but I thought I would be able to get her out of the mirror room. She was already gone, Monsieur!"

"You know something, don't you?" Raoul asked. "You know who he is?"

"I..." she hesitated. "He promised me. He promised me he would leave Meg alone!"

Raoul sighed. He would get nowhere while she was on the edge of hysteria. "She did follow him, Madame Giry, not the other way around," he pointed out in what he already suspected was a futile attempt to calm her.

"I know," she said, wringing her hands. "I know, and I don't understand! Meg is usually such a good girl, and I _told_ her to just leave it alone... when she found the passage behind the mirror I told her not to even wonder about it, and I thought she'd listened! But now she has..." She shook her head, the sentence trailing off.

He approached her, and took both of her hands in his. "Tell me," he implored softly. "Tell me what you know, and maybe we can find a way to save her."

She sighed. "Very well..."

* * *

When she finished the sad tale, Raoul found himself actually feeling pity for the man who terrorized the opera house and his beloved in particular. None of what he had heard excused the villain's ridiculous behavior, but it certainly helped to explain it.

"He's a genius," she said lamentingly. "He's an architect and designer, he's a composer and a magician... a genius, Monsieur!"

"But clearly, Madame Giry, genius has turned to madness," Raoul pointed out. She was silent, confirming the truth of his words. No sane man would do such things as this opera ghost. Then again, no sane young woman would chase such a man back through his flaming bolt-hole in the floor. Perhaps there was some irony in that. "You must tell me how to find him," he said. "I will gather a party and we will rescue your daughter."

She shook her head. "I cannot, Monsieur."

"But surely-!"

"No, Monsieur. It is futile," she said, sounding bitter but resigned. "He lives beneath the opera house... there is a series of caves and tunnels, carved out by the revolutionaries so many years ago, but they are vast. They spread under much of the city, and I only know how to find his entrances, and not even all of them! I have never been down to his domain. Finding your way down to him once inside and, more importantly, getting out again... I cannot help. It is a fools errand. The only way is if he brings her back on his own."

Raoul did not want to give up that easily, but he couldn't deny the veracity of her words. There was surely another way, but he couldn't yet see it.

* * *

This was _not_ how this night was supposed to end, Erik thought angrily as he all but dragged the little dancer down to the depths. He was to deliver his opera and his instructions. If Christine would consent to go he would take her. If not, well, hopefully he would lure the wretched Vicomte into his trap and end him. Instead, Christine was wearing that fop's ring and something else entirely had dropped into his house of mirrors.

He could not have been more surprised when an angel, wings and all, had dropped down in a heap of silk and feathers. Or so he'd thought! When he realized who it was who had fallen down after him, his shock had been still greater. Little Giry. Antoinette's daughter, Christine's shadow, and she had somehow stumbled into his trap.

Her costume was well-chosen, he must admit. He glanced back at her as she stumbled after him. In the gloom of the tunnels, he doubted she could see him, but his well-adjusted eyes picked her out easily. She was pretty, he supposed. Not beautiful, not like his Christine, but there was a certain sweetness in her features that made her costume strangely appropriate. She had clearly put effort into it, and selected a dress that displayed her generous bosom to great advantage and she did look, he must admit, rather lovely. Prettier by far than her mother had ever been.

What on earth was he to do with her? Damn foolish girl! What had she even thought to accomplish, chasing after him? The blue-blooded sod who had latched onto Christine, he could envision charging in with some idiotic notion of defending her, but Meg Giry was an entirely different creature. Honestly, what _had_ she been thinking? All she'd managed to do was put him in an incredibly difficult position. Damn Antoinette and her charity! Damn her for raising such a rash daughter!

They reached the edge of the lake at last, and Erik led her to where his gondola lay safely hidden away. She seemed startled to see it, but didn't pass comment. He offered her his hand to help her into the little boat, but she gave him a cool look and refused. Well, he couldn't say he hadn't offered, he thought in some small amusement as she nearly turned the gondola over in her attempt to step into it unassisted. How strange to see her, ordinarily so graceful, floundering around, hampered by her fine silks and her wings!

Stepping inside himself and pushing off from the shore, Erik was assaulted by memories of the only other time he had carried a passenger in his gondola, the night he had brought Christine down to his underground palace... He swallowed hard as, yet again, the torrent of conflicting passions that had been churning in him since _il Muto_ raged past his control. He had thought... that night, he had found his love for her overwhelming as he guarded her sleep. He had felt hope, then, hope that maybe his bittersweet daydreams weren't in vain because she was there with him, glowing as she slept untouched in his bed while he played soft music for her. Christine, his. But somehow it had fallen through... his face had betrayed him, as it always did, and she looked at him in horror. He knew he could make her see, though, he knew he could! If only the damned Vicomte weren't constantly in the way! Given enough time, Christine's fear would melt away, surely. She would look at him without loathing... Christine, out of everyone in the world, _had_ to understand someday... she was his angel of music, she would see, she would understand, she would care!

An angel of something else entirely, however, interrupted his thoughts. They had come into view of his living quarters and she was leaning forward in fascination, staring around her with wide eyes and nearly upsetting the boat as she did so. He sighed inwardly and shifted his weight backwards a bit to counterbalance, guiding the gondola to an easy stop at the edge of the water. He stepped out of the boat and turned to offer his assistance to her once again, but she seemed to have gotten a feel for the task because by the time he had offered his hand, she was already stepping onto dry land.

She resettled her skirts, then looked up at him with the air of one who is steeling their resolve. "If you intend to kill me, Monsieur," she said in a voice that was surprisingly calm, "I would ask that you please do it quickly."

He almost laughed. "I'm not going to kill you."

"You're not?"

She seemed genuinely surprised. Was that what they thought of him up there, then? A common bloodthirsty murderer? Oh, certainly he had killed before. He had strangled Buquet without a second thought, but the man had been a menace anyway. He'd _deserved_ it. But he didn't kill mindlessly! "I won't deny that the thought had crossed my mind," he informed her. "Luckily for you, Meg-"

"Marguerite, to you," she said coolly, confident now that he had as good as pledged not to take her life.

He smirked, amused by her bravado. "Luckily for you, _Marguerite_, I owe your mother a tremendous debt of gratitude. Strangling you would not be conducive to repaying what is due, and would also directly violate a promise I made to her once."

"How very fortunate for me, then," she said in that same caustic tone she'd been carefully applying to him since he hauled her out of his mirror trap.

He had a feeling he was going to get very tired of Marguerite Giry very, very quickly. "However, I have no intention of letting you leave here, not for awhile anyway."

"What?" she gasped.

"Well, I very obviously can't let you go back to the surface. You'd just lead them straight back here, wouldn't you?"

"Well of course I would!" she exclaimed. "Monsieur, you've done nothing but terrorize the opera house for months! All the time I was growing up, you were different. You were like a guardian angel, watching over us all, but now you've changed, and I know why! It's Christine, isn't it? You're obsessed!"

"Hold your tongue," he warned in a low voice, but she would not be checked.

"No, I won't! You've gone and dragged me down here, and now I'm going to say my piece and you're going to hear me and maybe some of it will get through your head," she said, eyes flashing and with the long decorative feathers on her hair-piece quivering from the force of her emotions. "You need to leave Christine alone! I saw the way you looked at her on the stairs, I know what you think, but it won't work! It won't happen! She's afraid of you, can't you see that? For ten years, she's thought you were a ghost, her father's ghost. Just a benevolent spirit, teaching her to sing, don't you understand? And now she's seen that you're nothing of the kind, hasn't she? She knows you're just a man and she doesn't love you! How could she, after so long thinking of you that way?"

"Stop," he warned again, feeling his temper rising as she said all these things that he didn't want to acknowledge.

"She loves Raoul, and I think you know that!" she exclaimed. "She's loved him since they were just children, long before she ever knew you existed and certainly long before she knew you were _real_! She's happy, can't you see that? He makes her happy and she's safe and he protects her and loves her! If you really cared for her the way you say you do, you'd let it go and let her be free and happy!"

"Silence!" he roared, self-control shattering. "She will love me yet! She has to, she just has to learn to see, and no shameless little brat playing at being an angel like her is going to say otherwise!"

Meg- Marguerite- lifted her chin, and he could see tears in her eyes though they did not spill over. "You're wrong," she said, quiet but defiant. "She cares. I know she cares. But she won't love you, not the way you want. One way or another, someday you'll see I'm right. It would be less painful for everyone if you just stopped now and let her go free."

"Not for me," he said, and with a swirl of his red cape, he stalked away into the blackness, leaving her behind in his realm of candles and music so that he would not strangle her, promises be damned.


	3. In Which Meg Worries And Snoops

**A/N-** YAY! You left me reviews! Thank you, all you wonderful people! And just FYI, Meg's musings near the middle of the chapter about having to protect Christine is totally a reference to a line from the original version of Prima Donna that never made it into the film version. In case you haven't had the opportunity to see (or in my case, just hear) a stage production, and were wondering. Which you probably weren't. Also, I drew a tiny bit of inspiration from that one appearance Meg makes in the Kay's _Phantom_ for the conversation the pair have at the end. Intertextuality WIN!

* * *

Erik paid attention to where he was walking, but only barely, and only because these passages were still a bit of a mystery even to him and despite his extensive knowledge of them, he could still get turned around in the dark. He gave the paths only his most basic attention, and devoted the rest of his thoughts to the churning in his stomach and in his head. Little Marguerite's fierce words still echoed against his skull. His heart was beating too fast and he felt physically sick as he worried at her tirade in his mind. Everything she said was turning over and over in his head and he wanted it out _out OUT__!_

She was wrong, she had to be! She just didn't understand his Christine... none of them understood Christine. They didn't understand how lonely and isolated she was, bereft of a family and left in an opera house full of strangers! Marguerite couldn't possibly understand what it was like for her growing up, reaching out desperately in search of someone to touch that hurting place inside and fix it, needing someone to see that you weren't alright beneath the smile... he had seen. He had understood Christine, and she understood him (he hoped). Yes, Christine knew, Christine understood, she just wasn't ready yet. She would really see it someday, it was just a matter of time and making her _see_. She'd see how it could be... he'd tried to tell her before, he'd written just the right music to explain and he'd sung those perfect words to her, but she hadn't been ready yet but she'd be ready soon.

_I saw the way you looked at her on the stairs..._

Oh really? Well then, how did you miss the way _she_ looked at _me_? Erik wondered bitterly. He had seen the look on her face... it was the same worshipful look she had given him the night he had taken her down here. Tonight she looked at him the way she used to before she knew what he looked like beneath the mask! Christine felt the same, he knew she did. She was just too blinded by his face right now to give in to him, but she would someday soon, he knew she would! The wretched Vicomte would get what was coming to him and Christine would be his and they could make beautiful music in the dark.

Yes, it would be alright. He loved Christine, and she would come to love him soon, and Marguerite was just being petty because he wouldn't let her leave. Everything would be fine.

Erik breathed easily.

* * *

Meg wandered around the little section of caverns the Phantom had made his home. She was tempted to venture out into the darkness in search of a way back to the surface, but she knew she wouldn't be able to navigate the way he had brought her, and at the thought of trying to find a different route, what little courage she had managed to scrape together deserted her entirely. It seemed she was stuck down here for as long as it suited him to hold her captive.

Who would have thought? Meg Giry, prisoner of the Opera Ghost! It was an utter disaster, she concluded. Why had she been so foolhardy as to chase after him? Even now, she wasn't sure what her motives had been. She had wanted to tell him off, she supposed, for frightening her poor friend so (in fact, she had rather wanted to have words with O.G. for awhile about the effects he'd had over the years on Christine), but never before had she acted so foolishly. Certainly she had been known to speak her mind on occasion, but this was a bit beyond telling Marie what she really thought of the color of her new dress. She'd gone and put her foot in it now!

She remembered the preparations for _il Muto_, when she had passed the new patron in the corridor and he had exchanged a look with her. That expression on his face had said everything she had been feeling: love for Christine, fear for her safety as O.G. demanded again and again that she be promoted and again and again his commands were ignored, a desire to shelter her from his inevitable wrath. She had not spoken to Raoul de Chagny that day, but ever afterwards she felt as though a pact had been forged between them: protect Christine. Meg loved the younger girl like a sister, and she knew then that the Vicomte cared for her too. She had vowed to herself (and perhaps indirectly to him, as well), that she would defend Christine even with her own life if she had to. At the time it had seemed so silly, one of those extravagant oaths a child with delusions of grandeur might make which never comes to any fruition. But then had come the death of Buquet and the Phantom's appearance at the masquerade tonight, and Meg began to fear that her life might really be what was required to save her friend. Well, if it came to that, she would give it, and gladly.

No good dwelling, she supposed. Perhaps Maman would find a way to get her out of this, or maybe the Phantom would have a change of heart (unlikely, she conceded, given how mightily she had irritated him just now), but for now, she would just have to live with the consequences of her actions. Rather than ponder her fate any longer, then, she started poking around the Phantom's lair, examining his possessions.

She recognized many things from previous productions. There were set pieces that had gone missing collected here, and quite a few props and oddities that had found their way below. She smirked at that. He certainly wasn't just playing at an apparition when things were changed around in the night! He had managed to make what appeared to be quite a comfortable (if highly unorthodox) home down here beneath the opera house. Although the air here was humid and stale, he had obviously chosen this section of the tunnels for his home with great care, for the stone beneath her feet and the walls were all dry, safe from the dampness which, she noticed, permeated much of the rest of the system of passageways.

As she rounded a corner, she almost gasped as she found herself face to face with Christine! But no, it wasn't Christine, it was a mannequin... a mannequin in a wedding dress. The likeness was utterly perfect, eerily so, and Meg shivered. This obsession the Phantom had with her friend ran deeper than anyone up above suspected, even among those who had worked out that it was Christine who made the ordinarily harmless prankster begin the terror campaign of the past months. This was a dangerous game he was playing, and Meg had no idea how to extricate any of them from it, though she dearly wished she could.

The deeper she wandered, the more concerned she became for Christine's safety. The rooms were littered with tributes to the lovely soprano, little paper dolls depicting scenes from the past year or so (Christine on stage in the white dress, singing Elissa in her triumphant debut), charcoal sketches on the wall, and her friend's name scrawled on nearly every piece of paper that wasn't filled with lines of music. "Oh Christine," Meg sighed to herself, "What have you done that makes him love you so?" It would all have been very sweet if Christine only loved him back, Meg thought sadly. But as she thought of her beautiful friend clasped tight in Raoul's arms, she knew that the Phantom's love for her was doomed, and this was all going to end so terribly for everyone, and she was the only one who seemed to see it! She felt as though she were left alone to fight against a rising tide, the only one able to stop the disaster, but she didn't know_ how!_

And then, quite abruptly, Meg's dark train of thought was violently interrupted as she stepped into the next chamber and her mind almost shut down, so transported was she. She seemed to have stepped into a veritable _world_ of books! It was a small room, but it was filled, top to bottom, with shelves upon shelves upon shelves of volumes, hundreds of them, maybe thousands. She let out a wordless little exclamation of delight and ran for the nearest shelf, pulling down a book in each hand and whirling around, eyes growing huge as she spun in circles around and around and titles danced past her. Hugo and Austen and Dickens and Flaubert and Emerson and Melville and the Brontë sisters and Chateaubriande and Thoreau and Coleridge yes, there was Poe as she had suspected from his costume choice, a collection of his short stories sitting squashed between _Notre Dame de Paris_ and a volume of Tennyson's poetry. There were works of fiction and scientific theses, poetry collections and books on architecture, fairytales and histories and philosophical treatises.

Her entire life, Meg had been a devotee of the written word. Her mother had taught her to read, as she taught all the young girls in the company, and Meg had devoured the opera house's small collection. When Christine had come with her big sad eyes and her tears at night, Meg had tried to comfort her by spinning the tales back to her, weaving a cocoon of magic words as best she could to take away her new friend's grief. Meg's access to books was tremendously limited, living on her mother's tiny salary and within the confines of the opera house, but she loved to hide herself away in a corner with the rare tome, away from the prying eyes of the peers that when she was a child had always seemed so much rougher and more uncouth than she was able to tolerate. Before she had been old enough to start dancing properly with the company, books had been her salvation. A new book was rare, and some of them had been only "on loan," but Meg didn't care. Those days when her mother would come home with a knowing smile on her face and a new volume they didn't have the money for in her hands had been some of the best days of Meg's earliest life. She wondered if some of those books had come from here. Yes! There was that copy of the _Kinder und Hausmarchen_ that she had kept under her pillow for months and months when she was seven- she recognized the endless series of dog-eared pages she had used to mark her place! And so her suspicions were confirmed.

"Do you like it?"

Meg whirled on the spot, and gaped at him as he appeared in the doorway. He had changed out of his Red Death outfit, donning a plain but well-tailored suit and a crisp white shirt and replacing his skull mask with the one she was more used to catching the most fleeting glimpses of, the one that obscured the right half of his face. A fuzzy part of her mind wondered what he was hiding, but she was still too dazed by the miracles all around her and drunk on the scent of parchment to dwell on it. He was handsome, she observed as her stomach fluttered annoyingly. Quite unnervingly so. It had been harder to tell at the masquerade, with most of his face obscured, but seeing him now, she was very aware of his strong jaw and piercing eyes.

"W-what?" she asked.

"I said, do you like it?" he said, amusement registering in his voice as he swept a hand around to indicate the room they stood in.

She grinned. "I suppose I do," she said. "Now I know where the books came from when I was small. It explains a lot."

"Whatever do you mean?" he asked innocently.

"Say what you will, I've always known Maman knew more about you than she was saying. This just confirms it. You gave her the books when I was young."

He didn't respond to that. Instead, he said smoothly, "I anticipate you being here for some time. Feel free to read whatever you wish, but God save you if you damage any of them."

Meg was quite suddenly reminded that she was a prisoner and he, regardless of the small kindness from her childhood, was her captor. "I am no longer a sticky-fingered child. Never fear, I won't tear any of the pages," she said, trying to return to the cool detachment with which she had treated him earlier. She achieved only moderate success, still too busy sneaking glances at the titles on the shelves to really focus on freezing him out. "Now Monsieur if, as you have said, I am to be held here for an extended period, I would appreciate knowing your name. You do have a name, I'm assuming?"

"I do. But if you need to address me, you may call me Phantom, _Marguerite_," he said, an utterly devastating smirk crossing his features at his own cleverness in turning her own actions back on her.

Around the handful of unwanted butterflies the expression turned loose inside her, Meg acknowledged his victory with a nod.

"Touché, Phantom," she replied.


	4. In Which Erik Plays and Meg Listens

**A/N-** While I was writing this, it came to me suddenly that the bitterest part about Erik's exile beneath the opera house must have been, indeed, the lack of any accompaniment. Yeah, playing solo is great, but there is _nothing_ like joining in someone of equal talent to your own and racing to greater and greater heights in the music and knowing they'll be able to match anything you do and just getting lost in this spiral of transcendent joy... he was never able to have that. Reason #367 why he latched onto Christine so intensely and so single-mindedly?

* * *

It had been, Meg was pretty sure, about four days since the masquerade. It was difficult to tell down here in the darkness, but it felt like that long at any rate. She had found that she and the Phantom got along rather well together. He wasn't there often, ascending to the surface regularly on mysterious errands that she didn't ask about (though she was dying with curiosity). When he returned below, they didn't speak much, but she certainly didn't mind. The few conversations they had carried on had each been one long, particularly violent _pas de deux_ for the mind which left her drained trying to keep one step ahead of his quick mind and sharp tongue.

She was eager to broach the subject of Christine again, but she didn't dare. Though she felt almost obligated to try and appeal to his good sense and beg him to abandon his pursuit of her friend, something like despair that had sparked in his eyes when she spoke up that first night held her back. Her insistence that Christine did not and would not love him had wounded him deeply; Meg wasn't sure what to do with that information. Well, she had time. She would find a good moment to bring it up eventually.

At times, Meg tended to forget she was a prisoner, content to sit in his library or wander as far as she dared into the caverns. She missed the daily routine of warm-ups and practice and rehearsal; she longed to give her body over to music and instinct and the graceful patterns she could make come alive beautifully, but this strange underground existence wasn't really all _that_ objectionable.

On her second day in the darkness, while the Phantom was gone, she had located his wardrobe. It was full of an assortment of wigs and masks of all kinds (though she only ever saw him wear that same white one), and a huge hodgepodge of clothing, some of it pilfered from Mme. Devereaux's costume department and some of it which Meg did not recognize. These, she assumed, had been purchased from somewhere outside. Another errand her mother had run for the Phantom? More and more, Meg began to see evidence of her mother's handiwork in the man's lonely existence.

None of the clothing in the wardrobe came anywhere near fitting her, and all of it was men's clothing, but nonetheless she knew she couldn't continue wandering around in her ball gown and angel wings, so she had made do. Meg carefully stored the dress, folded her pretty white gloves up neatly and hung up her wings. She replaced the costume with one of his shirts, tucked deep into a pair of trousers that were held up only by virtue of the belt she retrieved from one of the drawers. Her dainty white slippers were replaced with a pair of boots that were far too small to possibly fit on the Phantom's feet. She considered them to be evidence that he had been living down here for a very long time, probably since he was very young. She was meaning to ask him about that, but her nerve kept failing her when he was in the room.

When he had returned that night to see her wearing his clothes, he had responded with a raised eyebrow and a smirk, but did not comment. She was grateful for his silence.

There was but one bed, a magnificent rosewood thing carved in the shape of a swan and draped about in silks and velvets. She had unashamedly taken over that; if he was going to keep her down here, she was damn well going to make herself comfortable! Not, it transpired, that it actually seemed to matter. The Phantom hardly seemed to need sleep at all. She had only seen him asleep once, passed out on his organ on the third night. She couldn't deny that her heart had melted a little at the sight of him draped over the sounding board, too exhausted to fight against unconsciousness any longer. She had plucked his pen safely from his hand and covered him with one of the velvet covers from the bed. They didn't speak of it the next morning, but he had begun watching her more closely after that, she noticed.

All in all, it had been a strange few days, but not as abhorrent as she had feared when he had first informed her that he had absolutely no intention of letting her return to the surface world. In fact, it might almost have been pleasant. The one thing that seemed strange to her was that, though this underground realm was obviously devoted in unequal parts first to music and second to Christine, not a note passed the Phantom's lips. She never heard the sound of his magnificent organ or his voice which Christine claimed was so beautiful. Perhaps it was because of her presence? Perhaps he didn't want to play around Little Giry, saving up all his notes like a miser for the sweeter voice and the fairer face he so longed for? The thought was a bitter one, and she stamped down on it every time it cropped up in her head. She had always been a little bit jealous of her friend, but she didn't want to be bitter at Christine for having someone to care that she was talented. And so she continued to listen carefully in hopes of hearing him play his music, but after a few days it began to seem that she would not be that lucky.

Sometime after the fifth day, though, she awoke during the night to hear the soft sound of his violin ringing out through the cavern. For some minutes she stayed right where she lay, eyes closed, hardly breathing and wishing she could stop the heartbeat that seemed too loud. Any sound at all that wasn't the music he played was superfluous and expendable. She didn't recognize the exact piece, but it sounded like Paganini to her amateur ears. His technique was flawless and his gorgeous, emotive tone was evident in the sprightly melody he brought forth.

As he neared the end of the piece he transitioned effortlessly into something she didn't recognize, something in a minor key, full of unexpected two- and three-octave leaps, a haunting moderato interspersed with daring scherzando passages that set her blood pounding fiercely in her veins before leaving her gasping as the tempo settled back to a more leisurely pace. After what felt like an eternity spellbound, the song wound to an unexpectedly sweet close and Meg's eyes opened at last.

* * *

Erik had never suffered through a more nerve-wracking four days in his life! He had lived through a great deal of pain and more uncomfortable times than he cared to remember, but this was a different kind of discomfort, and one he was wholly unequipped to deal with. He had not shared space with another human being since he was a very young child, and he had absolutely no idea how to go about it. Within hours, he was regretting not simply delivering Marguerite back to her mother with a firm warning that if they valued their lives, Antoinette would keep her in check in the future. By the second day, he would have been lying to say he wasn't ready to jump out of his skin having her always there. It was cowardly, but he found himself fleeing to the recesses of the caverns, or to the opera house above.

He tried to catch glimpses of Christine on his meanderings, but so far he'd been unsuccessful. The Vicomte and the managers had done an excellent job of hiding her away under lock and key in the depths of the ballet dormitories, in one of the few rooms that even his secret ways couldn't penetrate. Well, he would wait. Eventually _she_ would come to _him_.

In the meantime... Marguerite. She was not at all the little girl he remembered, leading Christine by the hand and poking around the opera house the way he used to before he learned all its' secrets. Somehow, while he had been watching Christine, she had grown up behind his back and transformed into a lovely young woman who was far too composed and clever for his peace of mind. He was grateful that she seemed content to keep the silence between them, because she was an exhaustive conversational partner! Maybe if the words they _had_ exchanged had been of a more amiable nature, rather than those of adversaries and unwilling co-habitators, he would have found her quite engaging, but as it was, she was even sharper than her mother and their brief exchanges left him reeling as she danced verbal rings around him. He certainly held his own- what kind of Opera Ghost would he be if he couldn't outdo a mere girl in a battle of words?- but she managed to gain the upper hand just often enough to irritate him. And so the ironically unspoken agreement not to speak settled into place, and he accepted that. It was easier.

Bizarrely, she didn't seem to fear him. Or rather, she wasn't afraid of him, specifically. He had seen that first night that she was afraid for her friend (as if he would _ever_ hurt his Christine!), but he had promised not to relieve her of her life and with that threat out of the way, she didn't seem inclined to shrink away from him. Of course, she hadn't seen... But she never _would_ see that, and so it didn't matter. Her lack of fear was unnerving.

Just a few nights before, he had awoken sprawled across his organ, which was a fairly regular occurrence. He slept as little as he could, because dreams could only hold dark things for him, so it wasn't unusual for him to doze off at his instrument. What _was_ unusual, though, was that he woke with a warm blanket tucked around him. He could deduce what had happened, but what he could not fathom was why. The idea that a person would show compassion like that to creature who held her captive was baffling to him.

She had him so on-edge that he hadn't been able to play. He continued to compose with the same frenetic energy that had filled him since the disaster on the roof after _il Muto_, but he was hesitant to pick up one of his instruments. No one had ever actually heard him play before. Christine and Antoinette both had heard him sing, but no living soul had ever heard him touch the keyboard or his violin or any one of his collection of other instruments. A lesser man might have called it stage fright, but dammit, he was the Phantom of the Opera! Such restrictions didn't even apply to him! He was just... waiting. Yes, that was it. He was _waiting_.

But apparently he could wait only so long, because on the fifth night, once Marguerite was well and truly asleep (in _his_ bed, he might add!), he had latched onto his violin. Oh his _beautiful_ violin! He only acquired the finest instruments for his little collection, but the Stradivarius was his greatest prize. He had purchased her (through Antoinette) almost six years ago, and until Marguerite had crashed into his world and upset his routine, he had played her each and every day since then. He lifted her tenderly out of her case, inhaling the spicy smell of resin. He savored the simple task of tuning her, fingers expertly turning the pegs to achieve that perfect sound.

Preparations complete, he sorted through the catalogue of music in his head, selecting at random one of the hundreds of pieces he knew by heart and sending it soaring effortlessly into the air of the cavern, relishing the feel of giving himself over to the music after far too long. His concerns about Marguerite hearing him faded away into nothing as he all but forgot her presence, the lively "La Campanella" springing from the strings as if by magic.

As he came to the end of the piece, he invented an elegant transition on the spot to ease him into one of his own compositions, a sonatina from years ago that he loved dearly. It was an odd little piece, and he was never quite satisfied with it, but that was maybe because he had never heard it with proper accompaniment. It was one of his fonder daydreams, that someday he would hear his work performed as it was meant to be, with full instrumentation. For now, though, he was content to produce his own melodies, his soul itself transcending as he played. He closed his eyes in rapture as the eerie tune swept from the strings, from his fingers, from himself. These were the moments he lived for. When he played like this, he could imagine he was different. He felt he couldn't _really_ be the monster he knew himself to be; a monster couldn't play like this, couldn't create music this beautiful, could he?

The piece came to an end and Erik stayed frozen in place for a moment, still held in music's spell and savoring the fleeting feelings of adequacy, but the moment was shattered unexpectedly by applause. His eyes snapped open and he beheld Marguerite, sitting up in his bed, clapping enthusiastically.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Oh, you play _beautifully!_" She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, stocking feet kicking idly at the air and she clasped her dainty hands over the edge, leaning forward to look at him with a bright-eyed gaze, looking somewhat rumpled from sleep. Her blonde curls were bound up loosely by one of his black ribbons and cascaded over her left shoulder. She gave him a lopsided smile that warmed him unexpectedly

"I..." He was tongue-tied, staring at her, unsure why he was so entranced. It surely wasn't _her_ that had rendered him speechless! No, it couldn't be. Could it? "I apologize for waking you," he finally managed to spit out.

"I don't mind! It was worth it, Monsieur. I've never heard _anyone_ play like that!" Her praise was unlooked for, but he would have been lying to say it was unwelcome. He offered her an approximation of a shy smile. Those nutmeg eyes narrowed a little and her sleepy grin sharpened and turned knowing. "Monsieur..." She hesitated, then went on. "Have you ever played for an audience at all?"

The insight of this girl! How on earth had she guessed? Had his expression somehow given him away? "Not as such," he said stiffly.

"Then I'm twice-lucky! I've missed your music over the years," she responded.

"What?" _What?_

Suddenly her pretty face flushed scarlet and she looked down at her knees. "I... when I was a child, I used to hear you singing at night. You might not have realized, but I think the acoustics of these caves worked as a kind of funnel, sending the sound up into the opera house. It was very faint, and you could hardly hear it unless you were listening very closely, but there was a little vent in the floor just beneath my pallet in the dormitories and... I could hear you sometimes. It was nice, like my own personal lullaby even when the songs were sad." She turned an even brighter shade of red. "It took me awhile to work out who it was, but once I did, I never told anybody. You stopped after Christine came." A sad expression crossed her face ever so briefly, before being carefully replaced by well-schooled features. "I suppose that's when you began tutoring her."

Erik was unexpectedly touched by her story. Even before Christine had come, before he had reached out to her, someone had known he was there. Even in that indirect way, someone had known and, if he was reading her rightly, had been sad to lose that little bit of contact, however faint.

"Yes, that would have been... around that time," he said, responding to her implied question.

A strangely tense silence fell between them. Nothing had been said to make either uncomfortable, and yet it was plain to Erik that she was squirming on the inside at least as much as he was. What on earth had just transpired?

Suddenly, the silence was broken when she asked, "I've been wondering for months now: why Christine?"

"What?"

"Well, the corps de ballet is always full of beautiful, talented young girls. Why her, in particular? What made her special?"

He struggled internally with how to answer her. Part of him wanted to refuse to respond, but his playing had left him raw and open and something about the way she sat there, looking sweet and just a little sad, made him want to be honest for once in his pathetic life. "She was alone," he said. "She needed an Angel of Music to comfort her, and so I... stepped in."

"As simple as that?"

"As simple as that," he echoed.

_Except it hadn't been, had it?_ he suddenly remembered. Before Christine Daae had ever come to the Opera Populaire, he remembered watching Marguerite, hearing her hum the themes from whichever work the company was performing most recently, and thinking that she could become great. He had been flirting with the idea of nurturing the spark of potential he saw in her for several months, but Antoinette's eagle eyes were everywhere, and she had an eerie way of anticipating his moves. She had cornered him one night and told him in no uncertain terms that he was to stay far, far away from her daughter. And that had been that. He had abandoned the idea, and two weeks later, a little orphan with curly dark hair and imperfect French that was peppered with stray bits of Swedish had appeared in the dormitories and caught his attention as an acceptable replacement and, perhaps, a kindred spirit.

Marguerite, though, knew none of this, and she gave him another of her baffling smiles. "Well, Monsieur Phantom, I'm honored to have had the chance to hear you play. There's nothing more terrible than to have a beautiful gift and no one to share it with."

Erik didn't think he had ever heard truer words.

* * *

**A/N-** Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, I keep borrowing so heavily from Rigoletto (film, not opera) for all these E/M stories of mine, but what can I say? It was the film that defined my childhood and there are stark similarities to POTO... it was bound to creep in at least in part, so you'll just have to deal with me stealing a line or two.


	5. In Which The Pair Argue

**A/N-** Have I mentioned that I like Carlotta better than I like Christine? I mean, Christine has the better voice, but Carlotta's FUNNY! (And Minnie Driver plays her _so_ well...) Seriously, if I ever get this E/M obsession tempered to the point that I can write POTO for anything NOT them, I might write a story for Carlotta, who quite deserves it.

* * *

"Is there any word?" Andre asked.

Raoul sighed, shaking his head. "Nothing. The Phantom seems to have vanished completely once again, and he's taken Mlle. Giry with him." He cast a glance at the closed door behind whose lock Christine slept. He had been keeping almost constant watch over her for days, ever since the uninvited guest at the masquerade had sent her pale and shaking to these safer quarters. She was so frightened all the time now, confused and uncertain. She did not sleep well at night, and during the day Raoul could see the exhaustion and worry in her eyes. Christine was terrified for her friend.

The distraught manager wrung his hands. "What can we do?" he moaned.

Raoul clenched his hands into fists against his thighs. "I've been trying to find a map of those caverns he hides in, but I haven't had any luck. Everywhere I've asked after such a thing, I've gotten the same response. There simply isn't a map to be found, or if there is, it went mysteriously missing about twelve years ago."

"Right around the time this Opera Ghost legend started becoming so popular," Andre mumbled pathetically.

"Yes, so it would seem," Raoul replied.

"Hanging Buquet in the middle of a performance was bad enough, but now to be abducting young maidens?" the diminutive man cried.

Raoul pursed his lips. "May I remind you that Mlle. Giry is not the first girl this madman has taken," he pointed out.

"Yes, yes. He has taken Miss Daae once already," Andre mused bitterly. "It's so distressing. If we'd had any idea when we bought the place that it would be all this trouble...!" He sighed. "How fares Madame Giry?"

"As well as one could expect, under the circumstances," Raoul responded, speaking carefully in order to keep his promise to the directrice that he not reveal her connection to the Opera Ghost. "She's very afraid for her daughter, but she's a strong woman. To be completely frank, I think Christine is taking it harder. Meg was her dearest friend, and she's very distressed. I'm worried for her. I'm worried for them both."

There was nothing else to be said between the two men. What could they do but stand in silent worry and hope for a stroke of good fortune to help them turn the tide?

* * *

Meg was perusing a copy of _le Diable amoureux,_ torn between feeling disturbed and entranced by the tale of seduction. In the few days that had passed since she had first awakened to the Phantom's playing, the balance had been subtly redressed between them. She wasn't quite sure how it had happened or exactly what had changed, but something was undeniably different. In all practicality, very little had actually changed. They still remained cautious in their treatment of each other. On those occasions when it became necessary to speak, they still fell into an immediate pattern of trying to outdo the other. Still, it felt less hostile.

Then, of course, there was the fact that now he played. And oh, what music he played! Meg had never in her life heard anyone who displayed such proficiency, and not only on his violin. She had been fortunate enough to hear him play a wide variety of instruments, from the sweet-voiced oboe to the dark majesty of the cello. He seemed to favor woodwinds and stringed instruments. More than once, she had heard him composing, pounding out parts on the organ and shouting incomprehensibly in frustration when the notes didn't want to order themselves the way he needed them to. She hadn't heard him sing, but then, there was something intimate about singing that Meg didn't think he would want to share with just anyone, even if she _had _confessed to having heard him before.

The man was a puzzle. Meg simply could not reconcile the dark figure Christine described, the man she knew to have murdered at least once and who blackmailed the opera house right into chaos, with the talented, sensitive man she had the opportunity to observe. He was so lonely, that much she could see quite clearly, and he was desperately reaching out to the one person he thought could save him, apparently blind to her repeated rejections. How could someone so intelligent be so obtuse? She sighed, flipping a page in her book without having taken in a single word printed on it.

"Enjoying the novel?" he asked from quite close behind her.

She jumped to her feet, heart pounding before she realized who it was. "You're very creepy, you know," she said a little breathlessly, attempting unsuccessfully to conceal the fact that her pulse was racing.

A lazy smirk crossed his features. "I _am_ the Phantom of the Opera, Mademoiselle," he said pointedly.

Meg sniffed, drawing her air of indifference around her as always when preparing for one of their usual matches of wit. "_That_ is an affectation, Monsieur," she pointed out. "You're no more a ghost than Carlotta is!"

He blanched visibly. "Please _never _compare me to La Diva again! What did I ever do to you?" he whined.

"You mean besides holding me captive and dropping Josef Buquet's still-twitching corpse nearly on top of me?" she said frostily. "Thank you _so _much for that, by the way. I've been _so_ enjoying the nightmares." Sarcasm dripped from her voice.

"I suppose you may have a point," he conceded grudgingly.

She crossed her arms. "I don't just mean your ability to appear out of nowhere, either," she said, returning to her original point. "Though that's certainly unnerving enough. But I mean... all of this! What sort of man lives underground, away from the sun and all human contact?" If she had been paying better attention to his expression, she might have noticed the slight whitening of his lips that signified a rise in his temper. Meg didn't notice, however, and drove on, "And don't even get me _started_ on that extraordinarily creepy mannequin of yours! For God's sake, Phantom, how do you ever expect to endear Christine to you if you continue to do things that are practically guaranteed to frighten her?"

"You would be wise to hold your tongue, Marguerite," he said, and now she noticed he wasn't pleased with what she was saying.

Perhaps she had spoken too soon about their verbal sparring being less hostile. Well, too late now! She had found her opportunity to revisit the subject she most wanted to discuss with him, and she wasn't ready to abandon it just yet! "I've said it already, you're fighting a losing battle! I know Christine, and I know you can't make her love you. All you'll accomplish by trying the way you are is to drive her away completely and forever!"

"I said hold your tongue!" he said menacingly.

"Why can't you just let it go?" she pleaded, feeling her own temper enflaming at his stubbornness.

"Be silent! Good God, woman, you're as meddlesome as your mother!" he yelled, and that was it. Meg saw red.

"Maybe I am, but you _will_ hear what I have to say because unlike my mother, I'm not afraid of you!" she shouted right back.

"Perhaps you should be!"

"Yes, perhaps I should be, but I'm not," she said fiercely. "You're nothing like what the rumors say. You're not some evil demon that lurks down here- you're just a man like any other! But for some reason, you hide like a damnable coward in the vaults beneath an opera house and practically make sport out of terrifying my dearest friend!"

"You want to know why I am forced to live down here?" he roared, more out of control than she had ever seen him. "You want to know why the world has relegated me to live in a tomb? Fine! See then! Look and see and never forget!" He ripped the mask from his face.

Meg couldn't help it: she let out a noise that was stuck halfway between a gasp and a strangled yelp. She clapped a hand over her mouth to silence herself as she stared at the gruesome deformity she had never even guessed at that marred his otherwise handsome face. He stood glaring at her, eyes full of fire and shoulders heaving with anger for the longest moment and she stared back, eyes wide as saucers and unable to find a single word to say.

But as the silence stretched on, the rage drained out of him abruptly and he turned away, hiding the misshapen side of his face from her sight as he gazed unseeingly across the water. "Now you know why Christine fears me where once she loved me. She... the night she came to this place, she took the mask from my face and she saw-"

He broke off. Meg guessed that _he_ probably thought his voice sounded very calm as he explained, but she could hear the slight hesitance in his voice and see the shaking of his hands. Her shock ran away like water out a culvert and she closed the distance between them slowly. With trembling fingers, she reached out to touch his cheek. Before she could touch him, he jerked away from her like a skittish animal and she froze, letting him adjust to her proximity. Then, more slowly than before, she crossed the last few inches and brushed her fingers across the warped skin. His eyes closed and he went very, very still.

"It isn't very pretty, is it?" she said softly. Suddenly, she was whole-heartedly ashamed of her reaction upon first seeing the deformity. Even without his bitter words, his actions alone spoke volumes on how he felt about it. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have reacted as I did," she said earnestly. "I was just caught by surprise."

His eyes opened, vivid blue-green pools full of confusion, and she was suddenly very aware that she was standing very close to him all but caressing his face. She felt herself flush and took a step back. He opened his mouth, but seemed unable to find any words.

Still speaking gently, she said, "You may not want to hear it, but I have to say it: you have to let Christine go. All this can achieve is pain and broken hearts. I don't want to see that happen, not to Christine, not to Raoul, and not to you. I think you know I'm right. You just don't want to admit that."

"How can I?" he asked quietly. "How can I just... give up?"

Meg felt her heart ache at the forlorn note in his voice. "I don't know," she said sadly. "I can't have all the answers."

He was looking at her with an unreadable expression on his face. "You are a very unusual woman, Marguerite," he said.

She turned pink again. "Just think about what I've said. It could save everybody a lot of pain, I think. And..." She hesitated before plunging on. "And it's not really all _that_ bad." She gestured in the direction of his damaged face. He looked at her in utter incredulity. She could see he was uncomfortable and stepped away, eyes cast downward as she retreated to the next section of caverns, leaving him alone to contemplate her words.

* * *

Erik watched Marguerite's retreating figure, and observed hazily that she unconsciously walked in the fifth position even now. When she had vanished fully from his sight he continued to stare at the doorway for a few moments, then dropped his gaze to the porcelain mask he still clutched in his right hand. He had sworn that innocent Little Giry would never see what lay behind it, but then she had to go and provoke him with her stinging words and he had utterly forgotten himself. She had seen, and her reaction had been... odd. Typical at first, although rather milder than he had come to expect. She did not scream, or burst into tears as Christine had done. But then an _apology_ for behaving so? And her parting words! Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes at that. They were impossible words, but he wanted so much for them to be true! The whole conversation was utterly baffling.

Well, _she_ was baffling, for that matter. He could not say he had ever been turned quite so inside-out so repeatedly by anyone before. Her fearlessness, now stated as fact from her own lips, her warmth even towards him, her constant enraptured delight in his music... he simply could not make her out. She was the exact opposite of everything he had come to expect from others. She was certainly the exact opposite of Christine!

Physically, he supposed, the differences were easy to see. Christine was starkly, hauntingly beautiful, a veritable dark goddess. But if Christine was a goddess, then Marguerite was certainly an angel. She wasn't his Angel of Music. No, Marguerite was an angel of something else entirely, but he couldn't deny that in both fair good looks and unexpected underlying strength, she was transcendent. She also, he observed, had very soft hands.

Erik wasn't blind to the fact that Marguerite was in many ways a more admirable woman. She displayed incomprehensible kindness, even to him. She was bright and talented and strangely difficult to frighten. Her words came back to him: _I'm not afraid of you_. When was the last time _anyone_ had claimed not to be afraid of him, let alone actually meant it? Antoinette made no secret of the fact that he scared her more than a little; she had made it very clear when she had warned him so long ago to stay far, far from her daughter. Marguerite, though, stood her ground and looked him in the eye and smiled pleasantly. From what he could tell, she committed whole-heartedly to everything she did and every emotion she displayed, and he admired her for that. It was a trait they shared.

He shook his head wildly, trying to rid himself of the strange, conflicting feelings he found unexpectedly running through him. No matter_ how_ admirable or beautiful Marguerite happened to be, he couldn't let her distract him from his goal.

That might have been easier if the voice in the back of his head that other men might call a conscience weren't saying a lot of the same things she did.


	6. In Which Something Begins

**A Rather Important (And Long) A/N Which You Should Really Read Before Going On-** I feel like I need to make a point here. There are only three more chapters (and a possible epilogue) in this phic. It was always intended to be a _short_ story to help me through a bit of a blockage with Danse Macabre, and what I am doing here is _hitting the highlights_. One of the things I tend to criticize about too many of the E/M stories (though there are some really excellent stories out there that don't fall into this trap) is that the feelings develop way too fast and Erik forgets Christine way too fast. Although this is a short story, it covers a pretty decent time frame (ultimately I'm thinking about a month and a half, from the New Years' masquerade until sometime mid-February), and although it may not seem like it because of the length, I'm just touching the important moments, rather than relating the mundane, day-to-day existence of our characters, much as the actual film does- it just hits the highlights.

So that's my epic rant on that. I just really feel the need to make it clear that although we're only on chapter 6, several days at a time are going by between chapters here. I hope I've made it clear from the content, but I guess my innate tendency to empathize to great excess with people- even fictional people- has Erik's insecurity rubbing off on me... :/

* * *

The longer Erik spent in Marguerite's company, the more he was puzzled and fascinated by her. In the week and change that had passed since their last heated discussion, the animosity between them had all but disappeared. They still did not speak as much as he was sure she was accustomed to, but on the occasions when they did, he found that his earlier prediction was correct. She was a most engaging conversational partner, and though she was not particularly knowledgeable due to her very limited education, she had a quick and lovely mind and she was eager to discuss even subjects about which she knew almost nothing. He had to admit, he was impressed.

She treated him, not as he had come to expect from the world, but with respect and warmth, like an equal. Even after having seen his bare and disgusting face, she was still able to look him in the eye and give him that unnerving bright smile that had begun to appear on her face more and more as the days went by. She was like a tiny little second sun, perversely descended into his dark prison.

He felt he rather owed her something for it. It might be her fault that he had been forced to take her below, but he had to confess that he did feel ever so slightly guilty for it. A creature so innocent as she should not be caged beneath the earth. That was his lot in life, and she did not deserve to be forced to share it. At times he wondered if he mightn't just return her to her mother; after all, Marguerite wouldn't betray him, would she? It was absurd, but he felt he could trust her. Every time the thought occurred, though, he rejected the notion. Life had long ago taught him that he couldn't trust anyone. Besides, he found himself strangely loathe to part ways with her. Still, he owed her something.

And that was how he found himself wandering the ballet dormitories in the middle of the day- the only time he could be sure none of the company would be in this part of the opera house- in a quest to retrieve a few things. It was almost pathetically easy to infiltrate the place, and Erik took what he was searching for with relative ease. As he made his way back in the direction of his nearest exit route, however, he paused outside Antoinette's quarters.

Antoinette Fortescue (well, Giry, but she would always be fifteen-year-old Antoinette Fortescue to him) had been a faithful... he couldn't really say friend, because she had never been that, but she was more than an acquaintance, certainly. Fine then, she had been a faithful assistant over the years, delivering his correspondence to managers present and past, arranging his banking and investments, and generally being his liaison with the world that would never have dealt so easily with him directly. If he felt a twinge of guilt for hiding Marguerite away from the sunshine she impersonated, he certainly did so for causing Antoinette what surely must be a great deal of worry.

It did not occur to Erik that two weeks ago, he would never have had such a thought, would never have even considered the consequences his actions must have on others. He simply acted, stealing into Antoinette's room, locks be damned, and leaving a hastily composed note on her pillow. He assured her that her daughter was safe and well and that although he had no intention of bringing her back any time soon, she would be well looked-after.

Task finished, he slipped out of her quarters and back down into the darkness.

As he approached the series of caverns he had made his own, an unexpected sound echoed up to him- someone was singing. Within moments, he had identified the sweet voice as Meg's... as _Marguerite's,_ he corrected himself quickly. He paused outside the entrance to the main room, just out of sight, and listened. To his amazement, he recognized the tune. It was one half of a duet he had composed awhile back. Someone was performing his music- _his!_

And he had been right all those years ago. Marguerite had tremendous potential. The trouble was, that was all it was: potential. No one had ever bothered to properly train her voice, and though she had magnificent timbre, he was immediately able to identify several bad habits she had fallen into over the years. She was no Christine- he doubted anyone would be like Christine, for even without his teaching, she had an exceptional voice- but Marguerite had a good instrument. If someone were to intervene, to correct those little flaws, like cutting away the imperfections of a gemstone, she would no doubt prove to be quite magnificent...

* * *

Meg had to admit, she was a little surprised she had been able to wait two and a half weeks before she started to look at his music. If she was completely honest with herself, she had been a tiny bit hesitant to delve into the stacks of compositions because they almost seemed sacred. From the very beginning, she had seen clearly that music was the Phantom's solace, something special and beautiful and private, and she hadn't wanted to intrude, on that. Eventually, though, her curiosity won out.

One day, after the Phantom had disappeared as he was wont to do, she approached the shelves behind the organ where he stored his sheet music. She ran her eyes over the stacks, more than a little amazed at the sheer quantity of music this man had produced. There were dozens of operas, all neatly bound in leather, and she made a mental note to look over some of them. Besides his operas, she counted five symphonies, a ballet, and a plethora of short works for a wide variety of instruments and ensembles. He obviously had a great preference for the human voice, because a great number of his pieces were dedicated to showcasing beautiful voices, but he also composed a great deal for pianoforte and, strangely, for the clarinet.

Meg picked up a hand-bound folder marked in his precise, spidery script: _Six Duets for Soprano and Baritone_. She flipped through the pages, working through the rhythms in her mind as she studied the composition. She was not a great proficient by any measure, but she had grown up wrapped up in a world where music ruled all and Christine had taught her to read sheet music when they were children, and she could see just by looking that the Phantom's compositions were gorgeous. She had known that already, having heard him play several original pieces in the last week, but it struck her again as she looked at the printed notes.

His music _begged_ to be performed. Reverently, she approached the organ and found the starting pitch for the soprano line, then fumblingly worked out the part on the keyboard, embedding the tune in her mind for her to reproduce in song. It was a delicate, twilight-velvet melody and she just _knew_ that hearing both parts sing it would be utterly devastating to the senses.

Once she had pieced together the soprano part, she returned to the first pitch and sang, softly at first but growing in volume and confidence as the music took over, so brilliantly written that she did not need to awkwardly accompany herself on the keyboard to find the pitches. It was a setting of Baudelaire's _Harmonie du Soir_, and she found it fitting, oh so achingly perfect as she felt her soul rise up within her while she sang the familiar words: "E violon frйmit comme un coeur qu'on afflige, un coeur tendre qui hait le nйant vaste et noir!" _The violin as a tormented heart, a tender heart that hates the vast black nothing!_

"You're letting your tongue drop back," a silky voice interrupted, startling her into silence. "It's choking the sound. Also, you're working too hard to produce the sound from the throat. The music does not come from the throat- the throat is just a corridor for the air, nothing more."

Meg turned to find him leaning against the cavern wall, arms crossed, with an infuriating smirk firmly in place on his indecently handsome face. She felt herself turn red, embarrassed to have been caught out with her pitiful excuse for a voice performing the works of such a master, but then her spine stiffened. What had she to be embarrassed about? She might not be star material, but she loved music as much as anyone, loved feeling it move her soul. Usually she transformed that flight within into physical movement, but that did not mean she had any less right to make music of her own!

"If you're only going to criticize-" she began caustically.

"Not criticize. Instruct," he interrupted. "Now here- I've brought a few things I thought you might want."

He handed her a satchel, which she opened to reveal cloth- quite a lot of cloth, actually. Curious, she pulled the material out and discovered, to her amazement, that the bag contained three of her own dresses. It should, perhaps, have bothered her that he had gone poking through her things, but by the same token-

"I thought you would appreciate not wearing my clothes anymore," he said, smirk returning to its usual disconcerting place about his mouth.

"Well, yes, I-" she began, but the words died on her lips as she spied the other thing in the bag. A pair of her toe shoes, ribbons carefully and neatly wrapped around, rested at the bottom of the sack. She looked up, open-mouthed, at him. "You..." she started, but she couldn't find the right words. He had known. He had known how much she missed it, and he had given her the means to start again, even down here.

His smirk transformed into a softer expression, not quite a smile, but it warmed her from the inside out. He made no comment, though, just saying brusquely, "Put your things away, then come back here. We have work to do."

Silently she did as instructed. When she returned to him, he said, "You have good posture, and your intake of air is superb. I suppose dancing has taught you that much. It's fortunate that the disciplines overlap at least that much. But you're grabbing at the sound and trapping it in your throat. You're working too hard to _make_ the sound, rather than letting it form naturally. The problem, I think, is largely in your exhalation."

She listened intently to what he was saying, utterly baffled by his unexpected interest but certainly not willing to refuse. All her life, she had hoped that a teacher would take interest in her as one had Christine, and now the selfsame man offering his advice was not to be rejected!

"It is fortunate you have a good ear," he said. "We should have to work twice as hard if you were as incapable of finding pitches as Carlotta seems to be!"

"She's not really _that_ bad," Meg countered. "You're just picking on her because she's in her declining years as a performer."

"Do you want to sing, or do you want to argue?" he asked, frowning at her.

Meg looked down at her feet, somewhat chastened although she still felt she was right. He had a point though- it wasn't the time for it. "I want to sing," she mumbled.

"Alright then. Stand up straight, Marguerite, and-"

"Meg," she interrupted.

He looked taken aback. "What?"

"My friends call me Meg," she affirmed.

The look on his face was indecipherable. He looked as though he was torn between laughing and wanting to cry. "I do not have any friends," he said, and she could hear in his voice that he had been thrown off-balance. "But if I did, I suppose they would call me Erik."

She grinned brightly at him. "Well then, it's nice to know you at last, Erik," she said, and she stuck out her hand ironically. When he took it uncertainly, she shook his hand as a gentleman might, and was delighted to see that this coaxed a little smile out of him. As nicely-mannered as ever, though, he turned the tables on her and, still holding her tiny hand in his massive one, brought her hand up to his lips and dropped a soft kiss across her knuckles.

"Delighted I'm sure," he said, playing her little game and managing to outdo her once again. Meg tried, with only moderate success, _not_ to turn beet red once again. It was only his impeccable manners and wicked sense of humor, she told herself, but the fact was, no man's lips had ever touched her in any fashion before, even one so modest and formal as a kiss on the hand. Before she could sort out her spun head, though, he had already released her and was moving back to the music.

"Alright, Meg, let us begin..."

* * *

**A/N- **Double-meaning of closing line WIN? Or fail?


	7. In Which The Chapter Becomes Really Long

**A/N-** The only part of Love Never Dies that doesn't suck is the fact that the music is up to ALW's usual standard. I feel like I may have to overhaul that plot once I get Danse Macabre finished and Key Change posted. Except how the hell do I do that? Seriously, if I had written Love Never Dies, it would basically have been "Ten Years Later: Erik, Meg, and Madame Giry are in New York. Erik is NOT working as a Vegas-style promoter for cheap trash that an in-character Erik would not touch with a thirty-foot pole, Meg is NOT working as a prostitute to support him because A) yeah, she's got low self-esteem thanks to her mother loving Christine more, but I honestly don't see her doing that and B) Erik's already loaded thanks to his extortions from the managers so WTF. Erik and Meg got married five years ago and she's knocked up. Story over."

Anyway, that's my rant on that. This chapter got long (really long), and I probably could have found a way to break it up, but I felt the content really had more impact as a seamless whole.

* * *

If anyone had told Erik the night of the masquerade that it would result in this, he would have laughed in their faces. Even now, it would have been laughable if he hadn't been so perturbed by the whole thing!

The problem, of course, was Meg. Just a month before, she had been an irritant, an invader in his home and just another complication in his quest to make Christine his own in every way. Somehow, though, in the weeks that had passed, something had changed. It was so subtle at first that he hadn't really noticed until it was too late to distance himself. He, who was so used to solitude, found himself craving Meg's presence almost constantly. The highlight of his days, which once had been the time he spent watching over Christine, was now the hours when he and Meg would work together. He was beginning to unlock her voice, a mezzo-soprano like a bell that rang out through his chambers and thrilled him with its purity. He had also taken to playing for her while she danced. It was an unexpected but not unwelcome surprise to see her transforming his notes into graceful contortions of the body. Yes, Meg was talented. She was a far better dancer than she was a singer, but if he had anything to say about it, that would not be the case for long.

It was wholly unsettling to him to find himself growing so attached to someone he had hardly given a thought to in the past eight or nine years. He tried to remind himself that she would leave eventually. Once he had achieved his goal of winning Christine, he would let her go, and that would be the end of it.

Except _that_ was the other thing. He was having... well, to be honest, he was having doubts. Maybe it was Meg's impassioned words from weeks before, when she had told him in no uncertain terms that the girl she knew as a sister would never give him what he wanted from her. Maybe it was the sheer fact of her presence, reminding him of the realities that came with sharing one's life with another. Either way, he had found himself uncertain. He had been so focused on the idea of possessing Christine that he had never spared a thought for what would come after the victory. He'd had a blurry image in his head, he supposed, of the pair of them joined in music in the dark for the rest of their lives, but he'd never really considered it beyond that. What bonded them besides music? Could he talk to her? Could he even _trust_ her?

The more he pondered it, the more he became afraid that he was making a terrible mistake. The simple fact of the matter was that he _didn't_ trust Christine. She had already betrayed his trust, violating his deepest secret with no thought at all. He idolized her, he revered her, but he didn't _trust_ her. How could he expect her to save him if she couldn't even give him cause to trust her? (The thought came unbidden that he very nearly trusted Meg.) If she consented to be his, how on earth would they live? What would they talk about? He didn't know if Christine _had_ any interests besides music, had never bothered to find out. (He tried very hard not to consider the fact that he now knew Meg's opinions on poetry, on politics, and on a wide variety of other subjects.)

But Erik was loathe to admit he could be wrong, and that was how he found himself on the surface for the first time in days, in early February, hiding behind a wall and peering out through the tiniest little peep-hole. The Vicomte slept outside Christine's door, guarding her sleep as Erik was sure he must have been doing for some time. Probably since the masquerade, actually. He wondered if Christine appreciated that. He wondered if she liked being protected and coddled so. As he thought about it, as he looked back on everything he had observed of her over the years, he began to think that she probably did. Christine was, he reflected, not strong. She needed guidance. (Not like Meg, he thought, who had more than proved that she was more than capable of navigating challenges on her own.)

It appeared, though, that Christine was taking initiative after all, because as dawn drew near, she slipped out of her room, robed in white. Curious, he trailed her and heard her request to the landaulét driver to be taken to the cemetery. She then returned inside, presumably to change into more suitable attire for a journey in winter, and Erik acted without really thinking about it. This was an opportunity not to be squandered, doubts or not! He waited until the horses had been harnessed, then rendered the driver just unconscious enough to prevent any long-term harm.

When Christine returned, now dressed in appropriate mourning colors, he set them off at a brisk pace in the direction of the burial ground where he knew her father to be entombed. As he steered the carriage with the ease of someone who is well-used to handling horses, he wondered at her purpose in this journey. What could Christine gain from a visit to the realms of the dead?

He let her off at the cemetery gates, then doubled around and tied the horses securely before hurrying back around to the gravesite. He easily swung himself up onto the gabled roof of the Daae crypt to observe her, carefully out of sight as she knelt in the snow. Part of his mind was irritated to see her manner of dress, now more visible than it had been as he drove her here. She was gallivanting about with her chest and throat all exposed, in this temperature? Did she intend to destroy the voice he had given her?

"Oh Father," she whispered. "Father, what am I to do? For so long I have relied on your Angel... but he's not an angel, he's a demon and he has taken Meg and I don't know what to do." Pain shot through Erik's heart at her words. So this was what she thought of him, then? But Christine was still speaking, sending empty words to the father who wasn't listening. "I miss you, Father. You always knew exactly what to do... please, guide me. Show me what I must do to save Meg and save myself from this man who haunts us." Tears chased down her face.

Erik wanted to turn away, to run away and nurse his hurt in the darkness, but the sight of her silent tears brought out the affection he still held for her. It was what had called out to him so many years before, that emptiness he sensed in her. He had felt her loneliness call out to his, and he'd thought she'd understand. Maybe she still could. Maybe Meg was wrong. Maybe...

"Wandering child, so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance," he sang softly, in the same melody he had used to comfort her so many times as a child, a song she knew as well as he. He was both pleased and disturbed to hear that the stones that surrounded them gave his voice an echoing, unearthly quality, like a true ghost indeed.

Her dark head came up and she stared, terror and wonder blended in equal parts on her face. "Angel or Father, friend or phantom? Who is it there, staring?" she murmured.

"Have you forgotten your Angel?" he sang, and as he did so he could _see_ the music take hold, capturing her as it always did. But did he want this? Did he want her entranced, coming to him only because the music commanded? Did he not want her mind and her heart as well as her soul?

"Angel! Oh, speak! What endless longings echo in this whisper?" her voice rang out, sounding as ghostly as his in the snowy graveyard. They were both only half-real now, no hearts, no minds, only souls joined in music, and he hated it. He wanted to be real. He didn't want to be the ephemeral Phantom, or the Angel of Music, something only believed in, never seen, never touched, never loved the way he needed... He wanted to be _real!_ But he had made his bid now, and there was no taking it back. He slid down from the roof and presented himself to her, standing beside the doorway of the crypt as she rose to her feet and slowly approached him up the steps, just as she had the night of the masquerade.

"Christine- wait!" a voice rang out, and the Vicomte galloped into sight, riding- what else? A white horse. How terribly heroic, Erik thought bitterly. "Whatever you believe, this man- this _thing_- is not your father!"

Raoul de Chagny dismounted and drew his sword, stepping in front of Christine to protect her- as if he would harm her! Regrets or not, this inspired his rage immediately. He was not some beast who would rip Christine to shreds in a moment! He drew his own sword and advanced on the Vicomte, who reacted immediately, bringing his guard up to block the blow Erik tried to land on him. And then they were dueling, ranging across the cemetery and nearly slamming into gravestones as they joined in a dance of blades that Erik knew only too well. He had no clear idea why they were fighting. It all seemed so pointless now; why this battle if Christine was no longer worth it? But his own pride would not allow him to relent, driving his rival back and back until Raoul unexpectedly whirled around, forcing Erik to turn to prevent his daring attempt to get at his back from succeeding.

And then he saw Christine's face. In a split second, their eyes met, and he saw all the world's rejection reflected there. Meg's words from weeks before shot through his head: _She's thought you were a ghost... Just a benevolent spirit, teaching her to sing... and now she's seen that you're nothing of the kind... She knows you're just a man and she doesn't love you!_ Despair ripped through him as he understood, finally, that his doubts were not unfounded. Christine would not, perhaps could not, love him. Unbidden tears flooded his eyes.

Searing pain ripped through his right shoulder; in the tiniest instant he had been distracted, the Vicomte had landed a blow. Erik stumbled, biting down on his lip to strangle the cry of surprise and pain that had risen in his throat. He brought up his blade to stop Raoul's next attack, but his arm felt numb with pain and he was unable to absorb the force of the nobleman's strike. He stumbled and fell, and in an instant, Raoul had the tip of his sword ready to plunge through his heart. At that moment, Erik would have welcomed it.

"No, Raoul!" Christine's voice rang out. "Not like this." Erik stared at her, and in her face he saw pity. It was just as Meg had said. Christine cared, but never the way he would wish. She pitied him and feared him, where he wanted compassion and respect. He lay there in the snow, unable to move from shock, as the Vicomte rode away with his prize.

As the sound of hoofbeats faded into the distance, Erik crawled to his feet, favoring his wounded shoulder. He briefly debated attempting to take the landaulét back, but it was too conspicuous now that the sun had fully risen, and he wasn't sure that with his injury he'd be able to drive the carriage anyway. The horses would be noticed and the carriage was stamped with the Populaire's seal; it would be returned to the proper owners within hours, he was sure. And so he began the slow, arduous trek back to the city.

* * *

Meg removed her ballet shoes, wrapping the ribbons carefully around the body of the shoe and stowing them on the shelf she had claimed as her own. It was the first time in more than a week that she had practiced without accompaniment. Erik had begun playing for her, usually on his beautiful violin and usually his own compositions, and she had invented choreography on the spot to match his music. It was a challenging exercise, but then, he was a challenge by nature. Meg felt it was probably not helping... _things_ that she loved challenges.

The way things stood between them had shifted yet again since he had begun teaching her. He was a demanding teacher, but for someone whose interaction with the outside world was obviously limited and had been for many years, he was surprisingly good at explaining things. When she sang, she could hardly believe it was her own voice she was hearing. If he could do this for her voice in two weeks, no wonder Christine sang like an angel from heaven itself!

She couldn't help the downturn of her mouth when she thought of Erik's previous student. She didn't _want_ to be jealous of Christine, but at times she couldn't help herself. What Meg wasn't sure of anymore was whether she was jealous of her friend's talent, or her friend's teacher.

It was utterly shocking to Meg when she actually stepped back and thought of it. When she looked at the situation logically, it seemed almost ludicrous. He, a known murderer and blackmailer, held her captive underground, and she, Meg Giry, the girl who had dreamed of being swept off her feet by a wealthy gentleman who would see her even when trapped in the shadows of greater talents, had somehow developed... _feelings_. Yes, when she distanced herself from it and examined the reality of it, it was ridiculous. What she felt, though, was beyond rational thought. There was a word for it, she was sure, but Meg wouldn't say it, not even safely inside her own mind, she would be beyond any help. As long as she didn't put a name to these emotions, she was safe.

But refusing to call it what it was certainly didn't seem to be making it go away. It didn't change the fact that she eagerly looked forward to the conversations they held on all manner of subjects (he was so knowledgeable about so many things and she always felt a little thrill when she would get him talking about something, _really_ talking). It didn't change the fact that his occasional praise of her talents, such as they were, meant more to her than any of the empty compliments tossed her way by stagehands whom she knew were only interested in one thing. It didn't change the fact that he was an extraordinarily attractive man, regardless of what he thought of himself, and the mere sight of him was enough to send a rush of heat shooting through her body. It was an effect no man had ever had on her, and it both thrilled and annoyed her that he had such power over her.

Today, though, Meg was worried. In the first two weeks she had lived down here, he had been gone most of the day every day. Since he had begun teaching her, though, he had rarely left for more than an hour or two at a time. Today, he had been gone when she awakened and she thought nothing of it. She had eaten her usual meager breakfast and gone to the library to read for a few hours, expecting him to be back. After some time, she had felt that familiar restlessness that demanded movement, and given in to her impatience. She had warmed up, hoping he would be back in time to give her some music to transform with her body, but there had been no sign of him, and she had danced alone to the music in her head.

The longer he was gone, the more concerned she grew, and she imagined a great number of worrisome scenarios. Perhaps the police had caught up with him at last.

Meg's stomach was in knots when at long last she heard him approach. The sound of muffled swearing announced his return. She looked up and saw him storming into the main cavern with thunderclouds in his expression, clutching his right shoulder and kicking furiously at any object that happened to be in his way. More than one of his ornate candelabras tumbled into the lake with a hiss of extinguished flames.

"What happened?" she asked, getting to her feet and moving to meet him halfway.

He glowered. "The silver-tongued, rapier-wielding Vicomte de Chagny happened," he said in a rough voice. She noticed that his eyes were rimmed with red, and she was suddenly struck by the idea that he had been crying. He avoided her gaze, studying the sleeve of his jacket, which Meg saw was torn. He then removed the jacket, revealing that the sleeve of his white shirt was drenched scarlet to the elbow.

"Oh God!" she cried, rushing to his side. Her heart was suddenly sitting in her throat as she fought down panic. He twitched like a skittish animal as she touched him, but let her push back the torn material to examine the wound. She winced in sympathy, but was secretly relieved. It was bad, but it wasn't beyond her ability to deal with. "This looks deep," she said. "Alright. Take off your shirt and sit there-" She pointed to the bed. "I'll go heat some water."

"What?" he asked, obviously surprised by her command.

"I cannot clean that up without water, I cannot bind it if you've got your shirt in the way, and you had better sit before you faint from losing so much blood," she said patiently.

"I don't faint," he grumbled.

"Of course you don't," she humored him. "You had still better sit, because in case you hadn't noticed, you're rather a lot taller than I am, and the idea of having to stand en pointe to bandage that does not appeal to me in the slightest. Try to stop the bleeding, if you can." She pointed again at the bed, then turned sharply and made for the little cavern at the back of his series of rooms where he kept a small fire burning.

As she boiled cloth to clean the wound and to use as binding, Meg found her hands were shaking, from a combination of adrenaline and something else. She couldn't believe how bold she had been, ordering him to remove his clothing so bluntly! God help her if he had actually obeyed!

When she returned, preparations completed and with a stack of rags in one hand and a bowl of water in the other, she found to her amazement and consternation that he had done exactly as she said. He sat on the bed, a morose expression on his face, the shirt that had formerly hidden his body from her bundled up and pressed against the wound. She took several deep breaths in a vain attempt to steady her racing heartbeat as she looked at him. As a dancer, she was no stranger to what lay beneath a man's shirt. Many of the costumes designed for the corps de ballet were quite revealing, to say the least, for both sexes. But it was one thing to see the male component of the ballet half-dressed. Erik was a different story entirely!

Averting her eyes, trying to think of _anything_ but the fact that Erik certainly was a fine example of a man, and hoping she wasn't _too_ obviously red, Meg went to his side and sat down next to him. She took the wadded shirt from his hands and set it on the floor, wincing again as she looked at the wound. The gash ran across his upper arm just below the shoulder, and though it wasn't particularly long, it _was_ deep and still bleeding copiously. She set the bowl of water in her lap and dipped a clean cloth in the warm liquid and began wiping the dried blood from the edges of the cut. He hissed out between his teeth when the rag came in contact with his skin.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm afraid it's going to hurt, but I _have_ to clean it up."

He nodded in acknowledgement, jaw clenched.

Deciding she needed to distract him from the pain tending to his injury would unfortunately cause, she asked, "How did you get this?"

He stared straight ahead. "Christine went to the cemetery today," he said, voice so emotionless she knew he must be keeping very tight control of himself. "I took the place of her driver. She visited her father's grave and she spoke to him about... about me. And you. I called out to her and she came to me, but then the wretched Vicomte interfered. We dueled, and I... I saw Christine looking at me as if I were a monster, and while I was distracted he landed a blow-"

His jaw tightened and he broke off as Meg's hand tightened involuntarily, pressing harder than she had meant to against his cut. "Sorry," she murmured. "Go on."

"That's it. They left, I walked back, and now you're digging a damned rag into my arm, woman! Damn you!" His voice rose in anger as he pulled away, but Meg was suddenly sure that it wasn't directed at her.

Meg sighed. "What's wrong?" she asked. "I mean, what's _really_ wrong?"

He looked at her abruptly and intensely, and she felt powerless under his blue-eyed gaze. Then he looked away, resigned. "You were right," he said simply. "She doesn't-" He broke off, apparently unable or unwilling to continue.

"I see," she said simply, understanding his reticence. Whatever it was that existed between him and her best friend was something he had made clear many times in the past that he did not want to discuss, and she would not push him if he wasn't willing to tell her. She finished cleaning his injury in silence, then bound it with some dry cloth and went to empty the bowl of water and dispose of the blood-soaked rags.

* * *

When Meg returned, Erik had put on a clean shirt and he felt much more composed, if exhausted from the events of the morning and his difficult journey back to the opera house. Her gentle touch as she tended to him had helped him calm his jumbled emotions. For that matter, the fact that she had cared enough to help him at all had been enough to make him feel solid and whole again. Only once in his life had anyone shown him such care and tenderness, and that was her mother, when she had first rescued him from the gypsy carnival. Even from Antoinette, though, he had gotten a sense that she had only helped him because her ethics would not allow her to do otherwise, not out of any real sense of compassion for him, personally. Meg, though, seemed to genuinely care and it soothed him even as it completely undid him.

She bustled into the room, took one look at him and said, "Bed."

There she went with the orders again. "What?" he demanded.

"You need to rest," she said. "You hardly ever sleep as it is, and you've lost a lot of blood today."

Erik hesitated, his exhaustion warring with his fear of what awaited him in his dark dreams. Meg's hand on his uninjured shoulder steering him gently but firmly to the bed forced his decision. He could have stood his ground, but he was simply too tired to put up the kind of struggle he would have normally. She watched him like a hawk as he pulled off his boots and laid down on the soft mattress he had acquired but rarely made use of, and once she was satisfied that he wasn't going to make a run for it (it was a ridiculous idea, but who knew what went on in the mind of a female?) she turned to leave.

Irrational panic choked him. With the realization of Christine's rejection fresh in his mind, the idea of falling prey to his unconscious terrors was horrifying and before he knew what he was doing, his hand had shot out and grasped Meg's wrist. As she turned, he struggled to sit upright.

"Well?" she asked.

"I..." He searched for anything to explain his actions that would not render him pathetic and weak in her eyes. "I've been meaning to ask. Meg... why did you follow me that night? What made you come down after me?"

It was her turn to hesitate. Slowly, she sank down onto the edge of the bed, looking pensive. "I've wondered the same thing. I suppose could say it was because I had some things to say to you," she began slowly. "I could tell you I wanted to set you straight about Christine, and that wouldn't entirely be a lie. That was what I was thinking consciously at that moment, I guess. But I've had a lot of time to think about it, and I think the real reason I chased after you was because..." She hesitated, and though she hadn't been meeting his eyes to begin with, she looked even further away from him, staring determinedly across the lake. "It was because I was tired of being invisible."

"What?" He could not have heard her right.

She bit her lip uncomfortably. "All my life, I've been just a shadow," she confessed. "Either I'm Madame Giry's Daughter or Christine Daae's Best Friend or That Little Dancer. I know I have nothing to complain about, not really. I have a mother who loves me and a friend as close as a sister to me and a good, safe life, but it seems sometimes that I'm not even _real_. And that night... you were standing not even two feet away from me and you didn't even _look_ at me! People never look at me, or if they do, they don't actually see anything. I got angry, I suppose, and I had some things to say to you and I just wanted to do _something_ that would make people remember that I wasn't just another face in the crowd. Following you just sort of happened."

Erik could not even speak. Her words struck at the heart of him. Except for the details, she might have been describing him. Wasn't that exactly why he had taken up the mantle of the Opera Ghost? Not because he needed the money or the entertainment; he could have gotten by without both. Not as comfortably, but he would have been fine. No, he had just wanted that little thrill of acknowledgement, of someone knowing he was there even if they never saw him. How was it possible that this petite dancer saw right through to the heart of that? Erik was left full of an emotion he didn't understand, and no words to express it.

He turned, as he always did, to music. It was a little song he had written for Christine years before, but which no one but himself had ever heard. He sang softly, voice pitched low because this was not a time for the grand and the beautiful, but for something soft and simple and new. As the lyrics he had composed fled from his lips, he suddenly wondered whether they really suited Christine at all anymore. Had she ever truly heard? Or had she just taken what he offered her with no thought to the man behind the voice?

"No one would listen  
No one but her  
Heard as the outcast hears.

Shamed into solitude  
Shunned by the multitude  
I learned to listen  
In my dark, my heart heard music.

I longed to teach the world  
Rise up and reach the world  
No one would listen  
I alone could hear the music

Then at last, a voice in the gloom  
Seemed to cry "I hear you;  
I hear your fears,  
Your torment and your tears."

She saw my loneliness  
Shared in my emptiness

No one would listen  
No one but her  
Heard as the outcast hears..."

As he finished, he looked up at Meg and she at him; they both understood, and they both knew that the other understood. She nodded, the ghost of a smile on her face. He returned the look, confused but comforted, and suddenly he knew that there could be no more denial. Christine was lost to him, and perhaps she always had been. But he wasn't alone. Even with the aching loss of Christine settling around him, he had this strange bond with her friend to prevent him giving in to despair. Not just Christine's friend, either, he supposed. Were he and Meg friends? Was that the source of this warmth she inspired in him? He didn't know, and he was too exhausted to work it out.

At last he gave in to his body's cry for rest and closed his eyes. Tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow he could play until losing Christine hurt less. Tomorrow he could ponder what it was that had forged this impossible bond between himself and the impossible young woman who had found her way to him.

* * *

In her chambers far above, in the highest reaches of the Opera Populaire, Christine Daae fretted. Her dearest friend had been missing for almost five weeks, and after the events of that morning, she knew she could no longer sit and pray for Meg's safe return. She would have to do something herself. She just had to find the opportunity to get away from Raoul's watchful eyes...


	8. In Which Erik Begins To Recover

**A/N-** This chapter wasn't originally included in the story, but after last chapter I realized that things were moving at a quick pace- acceptable, all considered, but still quick, and I realized that rather than diving into the meat of what goes down next chapter, I seriously needed a little breather-interlude. That's not to say that this is an empty chapter. Believe me, it's not. It's just intended to break the pace a little.

* * *

For the past four days, Erik had been standoffish. Meg couldn't blame him. She suspected that it wasn't just the pain of his injury that was making him alternately snappish and morose. The fact that he had finally comprehended the futility of his desires had obviously hit him hard. She could hear it in the music he played, tragic songs that made her want to weep. Some of the songs he played were heartrendingly beautiful renditions of other composers' work, but the majority was either of his own composition or possibly just wholly unfamiliar to her. He played everything from memory, and flawlessly.

She did not interrupt these times, and she did not dance to this music. This was his private pain. The night she had bandaged his wound, she had realized that the pair of them were more alike than she had ever imagined. The words of the song he had sung still echoed in her head, touching the blank part inside herself that she had always been afraid to acknowledge because it seemed so silly to be sad without a real reason. Yes, she and Erik had a great deal in common; it seemed to her as though they had forged a bond between them now. But she still felt she had no right to intrude as he purged Christine from his soul. And the feelings she refused to put a name to lived on despite his foul moods. She did not want to consider what that might mean.

He still set aside some time each day to teach her, but the lessons were short, and they did not accomplish much. He was impatient with her, and she became quickly fed up with his behavior. She knew it wasn't really her he was frustrated with, but it bothered her that he took it out on her, and so they had come to an unspoken agreement that the lessons ended when he became too testy for her tolerance.

Meg continued to work on her own. All her life, she had cherished a secret dream to learn, to _really_ learn what music meant. Ever since she was a child, she had been captivated, as she supposed _anyone_ with a heart that beat must be, by the sheer beauty of music. It was the highest devotion and the harshest mistress, and she had seen the effect music had on the soul time and time again. Meg wanted that. She wanted to own the music, not just transform it into a different kind of art. And so she sang. She knew he could hear but he never commented outside their lessons.

Or at least, not until the fifth day.

She had changed his bandage as she usually did, passing comment on the fact that he was healing nicely, which received a lopsided shrug in response, then they both went about their separate ways for the morning. For Meg, it had involved a few exercises, keeping limber the muscles she had carefully sculpted all her life, and a few variations on the last routine the company had been rehearsing before she followed Erik into the dark. She supposed_ Rodelinda_ must have been performed weeks ago, the first opera of the new season. Michael would have been left without a partner.

And with that rather depressing thought, she laid off the dancing for the day, stretching gently to cool down before returning to the shelf where she stored her few belongings and retrieving the folder she had hardly let go of since first finding it weeks before, the _Six Duets_. Of all Erik's compositions- those that she'd been fortunate enough to hear, anyway- these six short pieces were her favorite, and he hadn't seemed to mind her taking temporary possession of the sheet music. She could not quite manage the fourth in the series as it was just too high for her, but she adored the fifth and knew it quite nearly by heart.

"_Prends ma main_  
_Venez avec moi_  
_Envolez-vous avec moi..._"

Her voice echoed perfectly against the stone walls (she knew now why he lived _here_: the acoustics were incredible), and she tried to keep in mind everything Erik had taught her about not clutching at the sound as she soared up into the upper register, and was delighted when she heard a note as pure as crystal ring out in the dark. Her heart felt as if it might explode in her chest and her head spun from the sheer joy of it.

She was amazed when she heard Erik's voice join hers on the next line. She hadn't noticed he was nearby. He had never sung _with_ her before, always silent except for his corrections and rare praise during her lessons, but suddenly there he was beside her, lifting his voice in ecstatic harmony.

"_Ne me laissez pas ici_  
_Dans cette danse seul!_"

Their voices complimented each other, sweetness and depth playing elegantly off each other, and Meg very nearly felt her knees buckle at the overwhelming rush that filled her as they. As they rose together up in a great crescendo however, Meg discovered that her clear mezzo, bright and pure though it might be, was no match for his rich baritone. His voice overpowered hers easily, even in the upper register that should have been her domain, and as the verse came to a close, she dropped out of the song, frustrated.

"What is it?" he asked.

"My voice is not strong enough," she said, dejected. "I haven't got it."

He frowned. "Don't be discouraged. You are seventeen, Meg. Your voice won't even be fully mature for at least another ten years."

"What about Christine? She's only sixteen, and her voice is certainly mature," Meg said petulantly and without thinking. Immediately she regretted mentioning Christine, thinking she must have hurt him. Aside from a slight tightening of his jaw, though, Erik betrayed no outward signs of any great emotion.

"Christine is rather different," he explained. "Even without my teaching, she would have had an exceptional voice. Her voice matured unusually fast, and she has enormous talent naturally. I simply unlocked it even more swiftly. Her voice still has some maturing to do, certainly, but she's rather further along the change than you. The soprano of the century, I imagine they'll call her." His look was faraway, but Meg thought she could see something else behind the loss today. Maybe it was acceptance.

"She deserves it," she said, and she hoped the jealousy didn't show in her tone. She didn't begrudge Christine her talent. She _didn't_. She just wished _she_ were equally talented. "She hasn't had much since her father died. She deserves the music."

He was looking at her now, and Meg shamefully felt her pulse accelerate under his blue-eyed gaze. "I suppose she does," he said. "But do not undervalue yourself, Marguerite. Your voice may be maturing in the ordinary way, but that does not mean you do not have the potential to be exceptional. It will not come as naturally to you as it does to her, but that does not mean that you cannot learn."

She nodded. "Alright. I trust your judgment," she said.

A strange expression crossed his face at her words, but all he said was, "As you should."

* * *

Erik knew that if he had been left alone with the realization that Christine would never love him, he would not have been able to handle it. He would have either succumbed to his grief and simply wasted away, or resigned himself to loving her forever from afar. Neither of those options were available, though, with Meg's constant presence. If he was perfectly honest with himself, he might not even have seen the truth if she had not been so insistent on telling him so early in their acquaintance. He wasn't sure if he was grateful for that or not.

Regardless, he knew it was only her eternal sunshine that had kept him afloat through those fateful days. He forced himself to go about his business, such as it was. He forced himself to teach her, though he knew they were accomplishing next to nothing with the lessons. It was a distraction from the ache in his chest that was, slowly but surely, lessening with every note he played. All the agony went, as it had always done, into the music. The tragic music he played, the fevered minuetti and discordant arias he composed, it all served to purge him of the obsession that had consumed him. As always, the music was his salvation, taking away his love just as it had fed it in the months preceding.

By the fifth day after the cemetery, he felt enough himself again- whoever that was- to approach Meg as she sang. She struggled to bring his music to life, and as her clear voice lofted up to a pure, ringing B, reaching nearly to the upper limits of her range, he felt as if she were singing for him. He knew she wasn't, really. She sang for herself. But for that short moment, his music sounded just as he had intended it to, and he felt the faintest stirring of something he was entirely unfamiliar with: hope.

He had never been sure which came first: his music or Christine. Had he composed for her voice, or had he crafted her voice to be perfect for his music? He would probably never know. But here was Meg standing there singing the lyrics he had only dreamed of hearing Christine perform, and though she blatantly _wasn't_ Christine, it still sounded lovely. Her range was quite long for a mezzo, reaching right up to the C, perhaps a D in time if she worked at it, and she had a clarity of tone that showed great promise. No, she wasn't Christine, but incredibly she could handle his music. It was nearly perfect... _nearly_. The soprano part did not sound as fine all alone.

And so he lifted his voice with hers, and he awkwardly tried to reassure her when she became discouraged. And impossibly, Erik realized he was going to survive. He had not lost his music to a Swedish beauty with an enchantress' eyes. It was different now from what it had been with Christine, but the music was still there, and he wondered if she knew.

* * *

Every day felt to Christine like grains in the hourglass of Meg's life slipping away. She had been so afraid to take action. She was still afraid, but now she felt she had no choice. If she did not do _something_, her Angel-turned-demon would destroy her only true friend. And there was only one way.

It took her more than a week after the events in the graveyard to find her opportunity. Eventually, though, there came a moment when the watchful eyes of Raoul were turned away. The attention the managers had been paying her since the masquerade had faded. Mme. Giry was too distracted, as worried as Christine herself, to watch over her as she had for so many years. The other girls in the chorus did not care one way or another.

And so Christine slipped away, down to the dressing room that usually belonged to Carlotta, and in the late afternoon she pushed back the mirror as she had once before, and slipped down into the dark.

* * *

**A/N- **Not gonna lie, I was listening to Only For Him on repeat while writing this. Damn ALW for writing a musical I _hate _with music I love! *grrr...!*


	9. In Which Christine Is A GameChanger

**A/N-** I continue to profess my hatred for Love Never Dies and the general OOCness of basically everyone. But I must confess, The Beauty Underneath has been on repeat on my stereo for weeks and it's refusing to leave me alone. Then again, Ramin is the most amazing Phantom ever (except for Gerik... Ramin has the best voice, but Gerry has the best overall portrayal of the character, he's so compelling. _Never doubt the Gerik love!_) so maybe that's not surprising.

Also, I think I'm overusing my title phrase, but at this point, I don't care. I'm trying to make a point.

* * *

Raoul had all but torn the opera house apart over the course of the last half-hour, but to no avail. He had only stepped away for an instant, he really had! He'd only left Christine's side to speak to the M. Firmin about the construction of the set for _Don Juan_, and whether or not a narrow pair of staircases was really the wisest design...

After the near-disaster in the graveyard, he had convinced the managers that the only way to draw this "ghost" out of his warren was to perform his work, as the villain had demanded. It was sound reasoning, and rehearsals had commenced as soon as Christine felt well enough to begin learning the protagonist's role. Raoul had to admit, though he wasn't the most musical of individuals, the opera was a work of sheer genius. Although highly atonal and full of dissonance and tension that was practically guaranteed to set an audience on-edge, the choral works remained utterly enthralling. The dramatic minor-key duet that encompassed much of the first scene was undoubtedly the highlight of the first act, and Raoul had to admit that he had felt stirrings of jealousy as he observed the rehearsals. It was ridiculous, because everyone knew that despite Piangi's supposed relationship with Carlotta, it was generally known that he was a "confirmed bachelor"; such was the power of the music that even with this knowledge, Raoul could not watch the performance without feeling the raw sensuality in the very notes themselves.

But now Christine was missing, and he could not seem to find her! He had a horrible suspicion that this could mean only one thing: the fiend had somehow taken her in the few moments he had left her out of his sight. There was nothing for it, now, he decided. Promises or no, he would _have_ to speak to Giry. Out of deference for her ability to handle the affair with her daughter as she saw fit, he had left her alone, but now that Christine too had been taken, there was nothing on God's green earth that could prevent him from trying to find his way to the Phantom's subterranean lair!

"Madame!" he said in as subdued a tone as he could manage under the circumstances, drawing her aside when he finally discovered her location. "He has taken Christine."

Her eyes widened. "What?" she gasped.

"I left her side just for a moment, and when I returned she was gone. At first I thought she had just gone down to the chapel, but she is not there nor anywhere else. Please, Madame-" He gave her a pleading look as he clasped her hands in his. "Please, you must show me the way down."

After several moments of hesitation, she nodded. "Very well, Monsieur. But remember... keep your hand at the level of your eyes!"

* * *

The passages underneath the opera house were not a pleasant place to be lost, and Christine was very afraid that she was getting lost. The last time she had come down here, she had been too enraptured with her Angel of Music to see this place as it was. Then, it had seemed safe, magical and warm. Now, though, she found the walkways dark, humid, and full of cobwebs. Down, down, down went the stairs and she was _sure_ she must be nearly there by now!

She shivered in the damp, feet aching from what felt like hours of wandering around in the dark, descending twisty staircase after twisty staircase and nearly tumbling to her knees when she tripped in the darkness. A shrill peeping and a scurry across her toes alerted her to the presence of rats, and she stifled the shriek of horror that bubbled up in her throat as she leapt in the opposite direction.

This had been a very bad idea. But she had to keep going, she just had to! Meg was counting on her, and Christine did not feel she could ever forgive herself if Meg was harmed in any way.

At last- at _long_ last- the lake came into view, and Christine hurried down to the water, nearly crying from relief.

* * *

"I cannot believe it is a realistic portrayal of life in the colonies!" Meg exclaimed. "It's so... _uncivilized!_"

Erik raised an eyebrow, reveling at her expression of utter disbelief. "The world is rarely as civilized as it pretends to be, Mademoiselle," he pointed out. "Growing up backstage of the opera should have taught you that!" Meg shook her head, blonde tresses tumbling elegantly about her shoulders and her expression seemed torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to be outraged. The look was more than a little appealing on her.

"I suppose you may be correct on that point, but there is a vast difference between the sort of things that go on backstage-" She turned pink, and he repressed the little smile that came unbidden at her obvious embarrassment even at such a subtle allusion. "-And what's described here! Scalping and kidnappings! It's horrid." She threw the manuscript on the table in disgust. "And to top it all off, his prose is just obtuse!"

"On that, I think we can both agree," he said dryly.

Meg's eyes widened. "Wait... you agree with me?"

"Of course I do."

"But... but we've been arguing for twenty minutes on this!" she said, looking suddenly, amusingly outraged.

He couldn't help but smirk at her umbrage. "_You_ were arguing, Meg. _I_ was waiting to see how long it would take you to work out that I wasn't actually disagreeing with anything you said."

Meg's eyes said she wanted to be irritated with him, but he noted the little twitch at the corner of her lips. It was a most entertaining expression on her delicate little face, and as the initial hostility between them all those weeks ago had faded away, he had learned to take a great deal of enjoyment into tying her up into mental knots in order to coax it out of her. He could not ever remember another person whose presence he enjoyed more. She really was sunshine incarnate, he supposed, and it was ironic that they had found themselves in this odd routine together.

So much had changed in such a short time. Since the encounter at the graveyard, he had systematically set about purging Christine, not just from his soul, but from his home as well. He had been tempted to remove the wedding dress from the mannequin, but he had no idea what to do with either, so instead he simply drew the curtains closed across the alcove. One by one, he had removed the drawings of her from the walls. He could not bring himself to destroy them, though. No, Christine would always be precious to him, and he couldn't bear to destroy the evidence of his love, his proof that he _could_ love. He simply bound the sketches up in leather and put them away, far out of sight. All that was left were his drawings of himself, his own twisted face staring back at him, alone once more... and yet so very much _not_ alone, because even now he still had Meg.

And _that_ was a conundrum in and of itself, and one that he was utterly unsure how to untangle. His head told him that Christine was the be-all and end-all, that no one else could compare to his angel of music, but there was something growing in his heart that he had never expected to feel. He knew the day was coming when he would have to release Meg, to give her back to the world that deserved her so much more than he did. With every moment he spent in her presence, however, that idea became more and more repugnant. How could he give up the best thing he'd ever had? She made him smile. How long had it been since he'd really, properly smiled without any bitterness to it? He couldn't actually remember. Meg had done that.

"You," she pronounced, in that way she had when she was trying to be haughty and not succeeding particularly well, "are impossible."

"So they say," he said, looking at her with a raised eyebrow and a little grin.

A strange look crossed over her face, and he was about to ask if she was alright when suddenly the sound of splashing caught his attention. A moment later, Meg heard it, too. Almost simultaneously, the pair of them turned to face the entrance to his home. Erik reached surreptitiously for the thin bit of rope he usually kept somewhere about his person, instantly on edge and ready to defend himself against an attack from...

Christine.

Erik actually felt himself blanch as she came into view, wading up out of the water in what he assumed must be costuming for his opera, a rose perched in her curls and soaked to the waist. He released his grasp on the punjab instinctively.

"Christine?" Meg gasped. "What are you doing here?"

The dark beauty stepped onto dry ground and shook some of the water from her skirts. Then she straightened herself up and looked him straight in the eye. He could see she was utterly terrified, and it showed in her quivering voice when she spoke. "I-I have come to offer myself in exchange for Meg's safe return," she said.

Erik gaped. "What?" he asked, utterly thrown.

"You want me, isn't that it? You want me to love you, to be your bride of darkness?" Christine cried. "I will give myself to you freely if you will just let Meg go free!" There were bitter tears pouring down her cheeks now.

"I-" Erik hesitated. Here it was, the very thing he had desired for so long offered to him. But he could not take it. His head was telling him to reach out and take Christine at last for his own, but his heart constricted at the thought of giving Meg up. How could he choose? The object of his desire, or the only genuine friend he'd ever had? His greatest creation, or the girl he was very much afraid he was coming to lo-

But he didn't even let himself finish that thought. If he even thought it, he would know it to be true, and if that happened he would have already made his choice, this choice that terrified him. His head and his heart were tearing him in two different directions and for the first time in more than twenty years, Erik did not know what to do.

Meg, it seemed, was less undecided, because before he could conjure any words at all, she had swept past him in a rustle of tulle to go to her friend's side. "Christine, you mustn't," she said. "You don't need to do this."

But Christine shook her head, lovely even in tears, and her enticing curls tumbled over her shoulders. "No, this is all my fault!" she sobbed. "If only I had not trusted so blindly-!"

"Your trusting heart becomes you," Erik found himself interrupting, unexpected even to himself. He stepped forward, crossing to where the girls stood. Meg, he noticed, squeezed Christine's hand reassuringly, before stepping politely aside. "Oh Christine..." he said softly, and reached to caress her flawless cheek. She stiffened at his touch, and that last tiny rejection sealed the decision he hadn't even realized he'd made until that moment. "I will never be able to deny I care for you," he said, feeling as if he heard his own voice from very far away. "But I cannot keep loving you as I have, for it will destroy us both. Meg has helped me see that." He stepped back from her, dropping his hand to his side once again and looking away from her. "Please, Christine... please leave me. Forget your Angel of Music."

"I do not think I can," she whispered, so quietly that even he, with his keen ears, had to strain to hear her.

"Then remember me in song. Every time you sing, think of me fondly." Suddenly, he smiled, and music once again gave him the perfect thing to say. "Remember me once in awhile. Please promise me you'll try." Christine smiled at the familiar lyrics. "But Christine, you must leave. Please leave me alone."

Before anyone could speak, a shout of "Christine!" rang out across across the cavern.

Raoul de Chagny came into view, wading through the water with his rapier drawn. Erik tried to summon the rage the Vicomte usually provoked, but his breaking heart allowed for no other emotions. He couldn't find the energy to draw out the punjab, and his own sword was useless on the other side of the cavern. Maybe it was time, he thought bitterly as the handsome nobleman charged up from the lake. Maybe it was right that the last act of his pathetic life was to set Christine free at last. He looked de Chagny in the eye, daring him to do it.

None of them had counted on Meg.

"Stop!" she shouted, stepping directly between Erik and the advancing Vicomte, hand raised as if to prevent him coming closer.

Raoul froze, expression utterly confused.

"You mustn't," Meg said fiercely. "I won't let you."

"Mademoiselle Giry, may I remind you of what this creature has done?" he began, but she was having none of it.

"He is no _creature,_" she said contemptuously. "He is just a man like any other, but you two have been only too ready to overlook that. I know. Believe me, I know things you, dear Vicomte, never even paused to consider. And I won't let you harm him." Erik could see that she was shaking, obviously frightened, but for some unfathomable reason, she stood her ground, for _him_. What on earth had he done to deserve such a champion?

Raoul stared, bitterness in his look. "That does not change the fact that he has abducted both you and Christine."

"What?" Meg said, hysterical laughter bubbling just beneath her voice in that one syllable. "He did not take Christine! She came down here on her own as, it must be pointed out, did I!"

The Vicomte glared at her, but reluctantly he lowered his weapon, though he very notably did not return the blade to its sheath. "Christine," he called softly, and after a moment's hesitation, his fiancée ran to him. He placed a protective arm around her waist.

"He won't try to take me again," she said softly. "We can go free. He's told me, Raoul... it's over."

He looked dubious, but nodded. "Be sure that it is," he said warningly, giving Erik a steely look over Meg's head that nonetheless showed a grudging respect. Then he turned his glance lower. "Mademoiselle?" he questioned. "Are you coming?"

This was it, Erik knew suddenly. This was the moment he had been dreading.

He was a possessive man by nature. Perhaps it was a result of his childhood, deprived of all but the most basic necessities, that he felt the urge to clutch desperately at everything he desired. In the end, he suspected that had been his misstep with Christine. The need to snatch Meg in his arms and flee was overwhelming, but then he looked at her. She stood before him, his angel of something else entirely, gazing up at him with an indecipherable look on her face. She belonged to the world of sunshine and dancing and people. She belonged to her mother and to the friend who was like her own sister. She was not his to own.

"Go, Meg. Take the boat," he said, voice detached, and in that moment, he hated himself for being such a good actor. He knew with absolute certainty that if Meg could see his distress, she wouldn't leave, but his own nature prevented him from showing that weakness in the presence of his former rival. He wanted to fall to his knees and beg her not to leave him all alone in the dark once more, but he could not do that.

And so he was left to watch as Raoul led Christine over to the gondola and helped her in. Just as she once had with him, Meg refused the Vicomte's hand and climbed in herself. Christine perched herself at the front of the boat, and as the Vicomte poled them away, he stood there and watched until they were out of sight. Meg sat at the back of the gondola and stared back at him, her eyes fixed on his until she was beyond the reach of his gaze.

Sadly, he raised his voice in the song that he had come to associate with Meg more than any other.

"No one would listen,  
No one but her,  
Heard as the outcast hears..."


	10. In Which Meg Takes A Stand

**A/N-** Three things.

One: writing Raoul is really hard!  
Two: if you're afraid of fluff, run away now.  
Three: the soundtrack to this chapter is 'For Good' from Wicked, both for Meg and Christine and for Meg and Erik. It fits eerily well... "Because I knew you, I have been changed for good." *cries*

* * *

Meg clutched onto the sides of the little black and gold boat, not from fear of tipping over, but to restrain herself. She could not tear her eyes away from Erik's until they turned the corner and disappeared from view, and as every second carried her farther from him, the more strongly she felt the urge to leap overboard. Her goodbye had been barely sufficient. She wished she had at least embraced him, to remind him he wasn't alone, not really. But she had been so out of sorts... she was ashamed to admit that the Vicomte had truly scared her when he drew his sword. She wasn't sure if it had been fear for Erik or fear for herself once she stepped between them. Either way, her heart had been pounding as she waved a half-hearted goodbye, which now seemed insufficient for the man who had unalterably changed her life.

Doubts plagued her. This was how it was supposed to end, though, wasn't it? Christine and her Vicomte sailed away, free to announce their engagement and have their happily ever after. Erik returned to his usual harmless pranks and the managers got a respite from their worries. And as for herself... well, what about that? What was left to her, when the curtain fell? She went back to the corps de ballet. She went back to depending on Maman's rare approving looks to know that she was still moving forward, that she was still _real_. She went back to singing tiny bit parts in the small ensembles as she had done since long before anyone allowed Christine to sing. Perhaps she would sing more now, she thought bitterly, after a month of Erik's teaching.

In short, Meg went right back where she'd started. Invisible once again. And Erik would be alone once again. Maybe he would visit her, she thought hopefully. Maybe he would creep up to the ballet dormitories in the night and she would come to him and sing and keep him company. But the more she thought about it, the more she doubted it. He would stay away, she thought, at first because he would want to nurse the hurt of losing Christine for the final time, and later because he was just used to being alone. He liked her company, she was pretty sure, but he wouldn't take the final step to continue their association. He didn't know how to reach out, not really, and he would fade back into the shadows again.

All these thoughts tumbled around inside her head until they reached the shore. The Vicomte helped Christine out of the boat, and this time, Meg accepted his hand. Without Raoul to pull her to her feet, she wasn't sure she'd have been able to make herself move. Reluctantly, she followed the couple to the base of a long, winding stair. Raoul began to guide the shivering Christine up the steps with his hand at the small of her back, but Meg hesitated at the bottom of the steps.

"Meg?" Christine asked, when she noticed her friend hanging back.

"I..." Meg began, unsure what she intended to say. And then, suddenly, she knew she couldn't go on. She couldn't follow her "rescuers" back up to the surface world. She couldn't fall back into that role of good, obedient little Meg Giry. She had left the girl she used to be behind the moment she had fallen through the trap-door in the floor, and had only put her further away in the last month and a half. She wasn't a child, and she wasn't Christine, and she wasn't going to just succumb quietly to a life where she would have to paint on a smile. She was Marguerite Dominique Giry, and she had long since fallen out of the habit of ignoring what her heart was telling her to do!

"I cannot come with you," she said.

Raoul looked disbelieving. "What?" he demanded.

Meg shook her head. "I just can't." She glanced over her shoulder at the expanse of water stretching behind them. "I can't leave him all alone."

"But... but I came to rescue you!" Christine insisted. "Please, Meg, you must come."

"Don't you understand, Christine?" Meg asked, climbing up a few steps and taking her sister's hands in her own. "I didn't need rescuing. I had a whole world of my own down here, with Erik."

Christine was momentarily distracted. "Erik... is that his name?"

Meg nodded. "It suits him, don't you think?"

The taller girl pursed her lips, apparently thinking on a response, but Raoul chose that moment to interrupt. "Yet the fact stands, Mlle. Giry, that this... this _Erik_ has killed at least one individual and probably more than that. He has been blackmailing the managers of the Opera Populaire for years, and who knows what kind of havoc he's wreaked when he doesn't have his way? He's a dangerous megalomaniac, and I cannot in good conscience allow you to stay here!"

"I'm not blind to his misdeeds, Vicomte," Meg said politely. "I'm fully aware of what he's done. I saw him strangle Josef Buquet with my own eyes. But until he became fixated on Christine, he never really hurt anyone. He badly frightened more than a few people, it's true, but never without just cause. His actions are regrettable, I'll admit, but his motives are as well-intentioned as his behavior is reprehensible."

Raoul's mouth tightened in disapproval. "You cannot be serious, Mademoiselle."

"But I am," she said.

"He's a dangerous man."

"Yes," she said. "He is. But he's also very lonely and I-"

She paused as a sudden, unexpected surge of emotion threatened to choke her with tears. When she felt better under control, she looked to Christine. "I can't just leave him all on his own," she implored. More than anything else, she had to make her friend understand. Maman would know, she was sure, but she would not part from Christine until she was absolutely certain that her sister understood why she was doing this.

"Christine, I'm not like you. You and Raoul will be happy together, but I don't have a future like that for me. I'm pretty, but I'm not beautiful like you are. I'm not quiet and demur like you. I'm not going to catch anyone's eye for long. I'm not the kind of girl who finds herself a nice young man and settles down. Who'd want someone as stubborn as me? But of course, I'm not the _other_ kind either."

Christine shook her head vigorously in agreement. Neither of them was that kind of girl, and they both knew it.

"I won't have the fairytale you're getting, Christine, and I don't think I can be a star. I'm a good dancer and I know it, but to survive that life for long I would have to become heartless. You know how obsessive it can be, and the competition is so fierce!" She shook her head sadly. "Erik, though... he sees me. I don't understand why or how, but he does. And he needs someone to look after him so badly, someone to keep him out of trouble."

Raoul crossed his arms defiantly. "I can't believe I'm hearing this! Mademoiselle, I-"

Meg looked him right in the eye. "I have to do this, Monsieur. You may not approve, but you have no authority to command me." She looked again to Christine, who was in tears once more. "Please tell me you understand, Christine."

"I don't want to be parted from you, Meg!"

"It won't be forever goodbye," Meg promised. "I was hardly a prisoner when I actually _was_ a prisoner! He's not what you think, he's so much more than that..."

The dark-haired beauty sniffled, but her eyes were suddenly soft. "Meg, do you...?"

Suspecting she knew what her friend was about to ask, Meg nodded. "I think so," she replied, smiling.

Christine embraced her. "Please be safe, sister," she whispered in her ear.

"I will," Meg assured her.

"This is absurd," Raoul muttered, but an understanding had been forged between the two women, and neither paid attention to him.

* * *

Erik didn't know what to do with himself. He tried to compose for awhile after Meg left, but he had only put a few bars of the viola line down on paper before he lost interest. He found himself wandering anxiously and aimlessly through his rooms, unable to settle anywhere. When he entered the library, it felt as though he had been slammed in the chest with something heavy. Meg had loved their books.

It would have been better, he thought bitterly, if she had never come at all. Christine would surely have destroyed him, but that might actually have been better. That was a pain he had experienced and knew that he could live with it. Now, though, he'd shared his life with someone. She had fitted herself into his routine, and he had made room for her without even thinking about it. She had slid seamlessly into his world, but somehow she could not seem to slide so easily back out again. He found himself looking around for her, even though he knew she was gone.

Perhaps he would visit her up on the surface. He could do that, couldn't he? But Antoinette would know, and god only knew what she would do, perhaps whisk Meg away somewhere safe from him. Who knew? She might do that anyway, regardless of his actions from this point on.

No, Meg was lost to him. His little ray of sunshine was gone and he was right back where he'd started, just a pitiful creature lurking in the blackness and dreaming of the world he was denied. Unwanted tears welled up in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. He removed his mask to wipe them away, but it did no good because more quickly took their place. He'd lost her. He'd lost Christine, and he'd lost Meg, and he couldn't honestly say which one had hurt worse, though he knew which he felt more keenly now. He buried his face in his hands and sank down onto the stone floor.

"Erik?"

He was imagining things. He wanted more than anything to hear her voice, and so he was tricking himself into hearing it.

"Erik, are you alright?"

Despite himself, he opened his eyes and looked up, already preparing for the disappointment when he found her not there.

Except there she stood. Meg, in all her radiant beauty stood before him, concern etched on her every feature. He scrambled to his feet, utterly stunned by her reappearance. He made a half-hearted movement as if to replace his mask, but it didn't seem worth the effort. Meg alone, out of all the people he had ever known, had looked upon his face without revulsion, and he didn't have it in him to hide from her any longer.

"You left...?" he murmured in confusion.

She shook her head. "I couldn't. We got all the way to the stairs and I just... I couldn't leave you!" All at once, she blushed and looked down at her satin-clad feet. "That is, if you want me here. I mean, I shouldn't have presumed..."

He stretched out a shaking hand to caress her cheek. "I would have missed you," he said quietly. It was as much of the emotions coursing through him he felt capable of expressing. One more word, and he would fall to pieces after all. It was bad enough that once again she had found him in tears.

But his words did seem to have an effect. He remembered how adept she had proven at interpreting his mannerisms over the course of their time together. It was possible she had picked up on the feeling behind his statement, because although the pink in her cheeks did not fade, she looked up at him with something akin to confidence in her gaze. "Erik, I..." And the confidence seemed to have fled again, or perhaps she simply did not have the words to express what she wanted to say (he had thought that impossible; Marguerite always had the words).

Meg found another way, though. She leapt up en pointe in the most graceful motion he had ever witnessed, and before he could comprehend what she was doing, she had pressed her lips to his. His heart exploded into an accelerando tempo as he responded instinctively to her kiss. He was so caught by surprise that he hardly had time to react before it was over and he was left with Meg still standing close to him, one delicate hand resting on his shoulder, looking as breathless as he felt. Overwhelmed, full of stunned gratitude that someone as beautiful as she would kiss _him_, heart still beating at ten times the normal rate, he felt more tears spill over his cheeks. Meg reached up and brushed them away, not hesitating to touch the ruined skin on the right side of his face, an incredibly tender look on her face. Then she leaned in to kiss him once more. Dizzily, he registered that she was so tiny it was no wonder she'd had to make unorthodox use of her toe shoes, and then conscious thought was gone. His hands found her waist and he pulled her closer, desperate for more of her even as he felt he didn't deserve it.

When the kiss ended, Erik's head was in a spin. All he could do was cling to her, so stunned by her actions that even forming coherent thought was impossible. Seeming to understand his bewilderment, Meg wrapped her arms around him and allowed him to bury his face in her hair as he shook from the shock of it. He was probably still crying; he wasn't really sure. At last, he managed to form a question, which he whispered in her ear: "Why did you come back?"

"Because I'm in love with you," was her soft, straightforward answer.

Erik drew back from her to stare at her, though he kept one hand perched at her waist, unwilling to lose contact even for a second. Meg's cheeks were flushed a lovely pale pink, and those beautiful nutmeg eyes were warm and certain. She meant what she said.

"Meg, I-"

"It's alright if you don't feel the same," she interrupted. "I know how deeply you cared for her. That doesn't go away overnight. But I just needed you to know how _I_ feel."

He pondered that for a moment. Yes, he cared for Christine. He always would. But Christine wasn't the one who made him smile, made him _laugh!_ Christine wasn't the one who brightened up his dark world just by being there. Christine hadn't bandaged his wound. Christine wasn't the one who smiled at him. Christine didn't want the music purely for its own sake. Christine wasn't a friend as well as an object of desire.

Erik took Meg's delicate face between his hands and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. "Meg, I think I may love you, as well," he said. Then he dropped his hands and stepped away in regret. "But I can't keep you down here. I can't lock you away from the world. You're not meant for a life like that, trapped in the dark with me." This was it. She would go away again, and now he would really know what he was giving up and he knew the pain of it _would_ kill him.

Instead, though, he felt her hand on his arm. He looked up.

"I'm not leaving you," she said firmly. "You see me. And Erik, you've been alone all your life. I love you, and I can't stand to let you be alone anymore. I just _can't! _"

It was obvious that there was no changing her mind. She would stay with him regardless of what he said. He was filled by a rush of affection for his beautiful dancer, and acted on it by pulling her into a tender embrace. "So, I can't let you stay, and you refuse to go," he said musingly as he held her. "What are we to do?"

"I don't know," she replied quietly.

* * *

**A/N2-** Epilogue time! But first... leave reviews.


	11. In Which Happily Ever After Happens

**A/N-** What a long, strange trip it's been... Well, actually, no. This has got to be the fastest ten and a half chapters I have ever written. Ever. Except when I was writing my first novel... that went pretty fast... _But_ back to the point, thank you, all you wonderful people, for reading this story and for encouraging me to take what started as a totally random, pointless plot bunny into this quasi-epic thinglet.

And yes, this chapter _is_ one giant fluff-fest. I really couldn't help myself. Erik deserves a bit of fluff in his life after getting repeatedly screwed over by absolutely everyone.

* * *

Three Years Later

Three years ago, he had been going about his life just as he always had, living alone in the darkness. He'd had nothing to his credit but his music and even that was really just a precious secret only he and one young soprano had ever known. At that time, he had felt himself utterly beyond salvation. It was funny, Erik thought, how things could change.

After Meg had professed her love for him that day beneath the opera house, things had happened with a speed that still left him reeling to think of it. They had argued that day... well, _he_ had ranted, insisting that he would not be the cause of her imprisonment in his hellish prison. She had stood by and waited until he had spent his stubbornness, then calmly proposed a compromise. They had left Paris a week later, much to her mother's fury. He shuddered to remember the fit Antoinette had thrown when she finally caught up with them.

It transpired that he was a very wealthy man. He had never given much thought to the salary he drew, allowing Antoinette to deposit it in the Credít Mobiliér and spending only what he found he needed to. He had picked the initial number out of the air on a whim. Twenty thousand had seemed like a decent amount. But seven years of extorting that much each month had provided him with substantially full pockets, and it had been more than enough for himself and Meg to start a new life in Vienna.

And what a life it was! Erik could say beyond a shadow of a doubt that the past few years had been the happiest times he had ever had. That was not to say that they had been without hardships, but compared to the way things had been before, he was more content than he really knew what to do with. He had doled out a portion of that considerable wealth to purchase a modest house in Vienna. Well... modest compared to the Opera Populaire. It was really rather impressive, for a town-house, Erik supposed. He wasn't the best judge of such things, but Meg had fallen in love with the place on sight and that had been more than enough to make up his mind, and as yet he hadn't regretted it. After spending most of his life underground, he gloried in the high windows that filled the house with sunshine even in the long Austrian winters; even better, there was a large wine cellar beneath the property which he could retreat to on the rare occasions when his agoraphobic tendencies showed themselves.

Before they had left Paris, he and Meg had worked together to gather all his compositions together, bound up neatly and taking up what turned out to be the majority of their baggage. It was this that had earned him his current employment. She had talked him into showing one of his operas to the concertmaster of the Vienna Staatsoper. It had been purchased on the spot, and somehow- he was never quite sure afterward how it came about- he wound up being contracted both as a resident composer and an artistic advisor. He found that his mask and his standoffish demeanor earned him some funny looks, but thanks to Meg, he didn't mind quite so much.

Meg... it all came down to her, didn't it? Erik was under no delusions that he was a good man. There was something fundamental in him that life had broken which could not be repaired. Meg, though, made him feel more whole and real than he could ever remember feeling before.

His angel had found employment in the chorus at the Staatsoper. He had been surprised at her refusal to audition for the ballet, but she had explained that she'd rather keep dancing as her own private joy, rather than turning it into just a _job_. He could certainly understand that. Occasionally there had been times when his manager's demands that he complete some task on a schedule other than his own nearly sent him into a blind fury. It was only Meg's presence just a few feet away on the stage that calmed him during these times.

Erik remembered something he had once read when he was studying the works of Plato, a suggestion that each soul was divided in two and cursed to wander the earth forever until they found the other part. He had no doubts whatsoever that Plato had been correct, because there was no question that Meg was the lost half of himself. For so many years he had been trapped and alone, but she had found him, and he was pretty sure meeting her had saved his life.

He still carried some lingering feelings for Christine. No one really forgot their first love, he supposed. Meg, though, meant much more to him than Christine ever had. She was his salvation, his best friend, and the woman who continually saved him from his own deeply flawed nature. She loved him without reserve. He didn't know why, and he no longer questioned it, choosing instead to simply accept the miracle that was Meg.

They had been married on New Years Day, exactly one year after their first real meeting. Antoinette did not approve, though Erik wasn't sure whether her disapproval was of them as a couple, or of the fact that they had quite blatantly been living in sin for months before their marriage. As always, the woman was a confounded mystery.

Raoul and Christine were married as well, he had heard, though they had not seen the pair again since that last confrontation beneath the opera house. He knew that Meg and Christine wrote frequently, and the latter had begun a concert tour that would certainly bring her to Vienna eventually. Perhaps they would all meet face-to-face once more and put the old animosities behind them at last. Erik hoped so. He had systematically purged his life of the man he used to be, and laying things to rest with the de Chagny's would be the last step in leaving O.G. behind him at last.

The sound of soft footsteps behind him announced Meg's presence. He smiled automatically at the sound of her approach, an expression which settled more firmly in place when he felt her hand on his shoulder. She peered down at the absentminded sketch he had been working on and he could practically feel her glow as she observed his subject. She would never admit it, but she loved it when he drew her. In this picture, though, she did not appear as he had always seen her. The charcoal Meg on the page was a little softer around the edges, with a little round belly showing beneath her skirt.

She presented him with the news a month ago. Erik was terrified. He was no father. He didn't have the faintest idea how to be one. Moreover, there was the lingering worry that he would contaminate this child, that the poor, innocent thing will bear his likeness. No child should be cursed as he was. But Meg held his hand and reassured him and as always, her warmth and her belief in him held his demons at bay. He loved her. God help him, he loved her more every second. He hadn't known it was possible to feel this way, but there it was, and there _she_ was, far too good and far too wonderful to possibly love him in return, and yet she did. She had consented to be his wife (she had confided in him that if he had asked earlier, she would have married him much sooner), and she carried his child. It was a mystery to him.

"Johanna has laryngitis," she said, naming the soprano who was to sing Armida in the next evening's production of _Rinaldo_.

He turned to look at her, surprised and more than a little worried. "What? But she was the understudy!" The original spinto had quite literally broken a leg. (Erik wasn't going to guarantee he'd had _nothing_ to do with that, but he hadn't gone out of his way to ensure it. He had merely arranged the _option_ for such a thing to happen. Frankly, the woman had destroyed her voice years before, and it wasn't going to get any better. He was pretty sure Meg suspected him, but she hadn't said anything outright, which made him feel guiltier than an accusation would have.)

"Yes, she is," Meg confirmed.

"So who's singing the part?" he asked.

A sly smile crossed Meg's face. "Poor Ludwig was pretty desperate," she informed him, naming the conductor of the Staatsoper orchestra. "He was going around begging the chorus to let him know if someone knew the role..." She trailed away, leaving the rest up to him to work out.

Meg had studied the role of Armida with his help not too long ago- her range was just long enough that she could sing it even as a mezzo.

Erik grinned at her as the realization struck. He got to his feet and pulled her into a sweet kiss, drowning as always in the essence of Meg. He felt her smile against his mouth. Yes, things certainly had changed, he thought. Life was pretty good.

* * *

**And now for my next trick... Here, watch the trailer for my next piece of E/M fanfiction: www**(dot)**youtube**(dot)**com/watch?v=OM7QxoG6N8I**

**It isn't the best-made trailer ever (there's something kinda wonky with the audio that I can't seem to sort out), but it'll give you an idea of what's coming up in the next three weeks or so.**


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